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Best Famous Federico Garcia Lorca Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Federico Garcia Lorca poems. This is a select list of the best famous Federico Garcia Lorca poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Federico Garcia Lorca poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Federico Garcia Lorca poems.

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by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Romance De La Luna

 La luna vino a la fragua
con su polis?n de nardos.
El ni?o la mira mira.
El ni?o la est? mirando.
En el aire conmovido mueve la luna sus brazos y ense?a, l?brica y pura, sus senos de duro esta?o.
Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos, har?an con tu coraz?n collares y anillos blancos.
Ni?o, d?jame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos, te encontrar?n sobre el yunque con los ojillos cerrados.
Huye luna, luna, luna, que ya siento sus caballos.
N?no, d?jame, no pises mi blancor almidonado.
El jinete se acercaba tocando el tambor del llano Dentro de la fragua el ni?o, tiene los ojos cerrados.
Por el olivar ven?an, bronce y sue?o, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas y los ojos entornados.
?C?mo canta la zumaya, ay c?mo canta en el ?rbol! Por el cielo va la luna con un ni?o de la mano.
Dentro de la fragua lloran, dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la est? velando.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

La Guitarra

 Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.
Es in?til callarla.
Es imposible callarla.
Llora mon?tona como llora el agua, como llora el viento sobre la nevada.
Es imposible callarla.
Llora por cosas lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco, la tarde sin ma?ana, y el primer p?jaro muerto sobre la rama.
?Oh guitarra! Coraz?n malherido por cinco espadas.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

The Weeping

 I have shut my windows.
I do not want to hear the weeping.
But from behind the grey walls.
Nothing is heard but the weeping.
There are few angels that sing.
There are few dogs that bark.
A thousand violins fit in the palm of the hand.
But the weeping is an immense angel.
The weeping is an immense dog.
The weeping is an immense violin.
Tears strangle the wind.
Nothing is heard but the weeping.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Adivinanza De La Guitarra

 En la redonda 
encrucijada,
seis doncellas
bailan.
Tres de carne y tres de plata.
Los sue?os de ayer las buscan pero las tiene abrazadas un Polifemo de oro.
?La guitarra!


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Weeping

 Weeping,
I go down the street
Grotesque, without solution
With the sadness of Cyrano
And Quixote.
Redeeming Infinite impossiblities With the rhythm of the clock.
(The captive voice, far away.
Put on a cricket' clothes.
)


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Arbol? Arbol? . . .

 Tree, tree
dry and green.
The girl with the pretty face is out picking olives.
The wind, playboy of towers, grabs her around the waist.
Four riders passed by on Andalusian ponies, with blue and green jackets and big, dark capes.
"Come to Cordoba, muchacha.
" The girl won't listen to them.
Three young bullfighters passed, slender in the waist, with jackets the color of oranges and swords of ancient silver.
"Come to Sevilla, muchacha.
" The girl won't listen to them.
When the afternoon had turned dark brown, with scattered light, a young man passed by, wearing roses and myrtle of the moon.
"Come to Granada, inuchacha.
" And the girl won't listen to him.
The girl with the pretty face keeps on picking olives with the grey arm of the wind wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree dry and green.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Ditty of First Desire

 In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.
And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.
(Soul, turn orange-colored.
Soul, turn the color of love.
) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself.
A heart.
And at the evening's end I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.
Soul, turn orange-colored.
Soul, turn the color of love.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Before the Dawn

 But like love
the archers
are blind

Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm
lily.
The keel of the moon breaks through purple clouds and their quivers fill with dew.
Ay, but like love the archers are blind!


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Fare Well

 If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The little boy is eating oranges.
(From my balcony I can see him.
) The reaper is harvesting the wheat.
(From my balcony I can hear him.
) If I die, leave the balcony open!


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Gacela of Unforseen Love

 No one understood the perfume
of the dark magnolia of your womb.
Nobody knew that you tormented a hummingbird of love between your teeth.
A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep in the plaza with moon of your forehead, while through four nights I embraced your waist, enemy of the snow.
Between plaster and jasmins, your glance was a pale branch of seeds.
I sought in my heart to give you the ivory letters that say "siempre", "siempre", "siempre" : garden of my agony, your body elusive always, that blood of your veins in my mouth, your mouth already lightless for my death.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

The Little Mute Boy

 The litle boy was looking for his voice.
(The King of the crickets had it.
) In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice.
I do not want it for speaking with; I will make a ring of it so that he may wear my silence on his little finger.
In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice.
(The captive voice, far away.
Put on a cricket' clothes.
)


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Soneto

 Largo espectro de plata conmovida
el viento de la noche suspirando,
abri? con mano gris mi vieja herida
y se alej?: yo estaba deseando.
Llaga de amor que me dar? la vida perpetua sangre y pura luz brotando.
Grieta en que Filomela enmudecida tendr? bosque, dolor y nido blando.
?Ay qu? dulce rumor en mi cabeza! Me tender? junto a la flor sencilla donde flota sin alma tu belleza.
Y el agua errante se pondr? amarilla, mientras corre mi sangre en la maleza mojada y olorosa de la orilla.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Serenata

 The night soaks itself
along the shore of the river
and in Lolita's breasts
the branches die of love.
The branches die of love.
Naked the night sings above the bridges of March.
Lolita bathes her body with salt water and roses.
The branches die of love.
The night of anise and silver shines over the rooftops.
Silver of streams and mirrors Anise of your white thighs.
The branches die of love.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Gacela of the Dark Death

 I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood, that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass, nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth that labors before dawn.
I want to sleep awhile, awhile, a minute, a century; but all must know that I have not died; that there is a stable of gold in my lips; that I am the small friend of the West wing; that I am the intense shadows of my tears.
Cover me at dawn with a veil, because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me, and wet with hard water my shoes so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.
For I want to sleep the dream of the apples, to learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth; for I want to live with that dark child who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Paisaje

 El campo
de olivos
se abre y se cierra
como un abanico.
Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fr?os.
Tiembla junco y penumbra a la orilla del r?o.
Se riza el aire gris.
Los olivos, est?n cargados de gritos.
Una bandada de p?jaros cautivos, que mueven sus largu?simas colas en lo sombr?o.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Muri? Al Amanecer

 Noche de cuatro lunas
y un solo ?rbol,
con una sola sombra
y un solo p?jaro.
Busco en mi carne las huellas de tus labios.
El manantial besa al viento sin tocarlo.
Llevo el No que me diste, en la palma de la mano, como un lim?n de cera casi blanco.
Noche de cuatro lunas y un solo ?rbol, En la punta de una aguja, est? mi amor ?girando!


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Balada Amarilla IV

 Sobre el cielo
de las margaritas ando.
Yo imagino esta tarde que soy santo.
Me pusieron la luna en las manos.
Yo la puse otra vez en los espacios y el Se?or me premi? con la rosa y el halo.
Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando.
Y ahora voy por este campo a librar a las ni?as de galanes malos y dar monedas de oro a todos los muchachos.
Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Gacela of the Dead Child

 Each afternoon in Granada,
each afternoon, a child dies.
Each afternoon the water sits down and chats with its companions.
The dead wear mossy wings.
The cloudy wind and the clear wind are two pheasants in flight through the towers, and the day is a wounded boy.
Not a flicker of lark was left in the air when I met you in the caverns of wine.
Not the crumb of a cloud was left in the ground when you were drowned in the river.
A giant of water fell down over the hills, and the valley was tumbling with lilies and dogs.
In my hands' violet shadow, your body, dead on the bank, was an angel of coldness.


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Saturday Paseo: Adelina

 Oranges
do not grow in the sea
neither is there love in Sevilla.
You in Dark and the I the sun that's hot, loan me your parasol.
I'll wear my jealous reflection, juice of lemon and lime- and your words, your sinful little words- will swim around awhile.
Oranges do not grow in the sea, Ay, love! And there is no love in Sevilla!


by Federico Garcia Lorca | |

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being on this shore a branchless trunk and what I most regret is having no flower pulp or clay for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure if you are my cross my dampened pain if I am a dog and you alone my master never let me lose what I have gained and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn.