Today in my creative writing class we are working on explicating Pablo Neruda's Sonnet 17, and comparing it to Shakespeare's Sonnet 18. Because this makes me cry like a small child every time I read it, I thought I should share it with the world.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Tell me you can't read that without your heart leaping a little bit, and I'll call you a shell of a person.
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