RUBEN DARIO

Sweet as sweetest Grecian honey will my song be when I sing, O Beloved, in the season of the Spring!

Poetry will exist as long as there is a problem of life and death

You think that life is fire, that progress is eruption, that wherever you shoot you hit the future. No.

Pity for him who one day looks uponhis inward sphinx and questions it. He is lost.

The United States is potent and great. When you shake there is a deep tremblor that passes through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes. If you clamor, it is heard like the roaring of a lion.

You are a Universe of Universes And your Soul a source of Songs.

I seek a form that my style cannot discover,a bud of thought that wants to be a rose.

The America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa,the aromatic America of Columbus,Catholic America, Spanish America,the America where noble Cuauhtémoc said: "I am not on a bed of roses"-our America trembling with hurricanes, trembling with Love: O men with Saxon eyes and barbarous souls, our America lives. And dreams. And loves. And it is the daughter of the Sun. Be careful.

Sweet as sweetest Grecian honey will my song be when I sing, O Beloved, in the season of the Spring!

You think that life is fire, that progress is eruption, that wherever you shoot you hit the future. No.

The United States is potent and great. When you shake there is a deep tremblor that passes through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes. If you clamor, it is heard like the roaring of a lion.

Poetry will exist as long as there is a problem of life and death

I seek a form that my style cannot discover,a bud of thought that wants to be a rose.

You are a Universe of Universes And your Soul a source of Songs.

The America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa,the aromatic America of Columbus,Catholic America, Spanish America,the America where noble Cuauhtémoc said: "I am not on a bed of roses"-our America trembling with hurricanes, trembling with Love: O men with Saxon eyes and barbarous souls, our America lives. And dreams. And loves. And it is the daughter of the Sun. Be careful.

Pity for him who one day looks uponhis inward sphinx and questions it. He is lost.