25 POEMS OF HAPPINESS AND JOY (SHORT) - OTHER PHRASES - 2024

I leave you a list of happiness poems by some of the great poets in history such as Pablo Neruda, Rubén Dario, Antonio Machado, Federico Garcia Lorca, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, Vicente Aleixandre and many more.

You may also be interested in these positive phrases or you are happy.

Wine sonnet

In what kingdom, in what century, under what silent

conjunction of the stars, on what secret day

that marble has not saved, did the courageous

and unique idea of ​​inventing joy arise ?

Whith golden fall to invent. Wine

flows red through the generations

like the river of time, and on the arduous path it

lavishes its music, its fire and its lions.

In the night of joy or in the adverse day, he

exalts the joy or mitigates the terror

and the new dithyramb that I sing to him this day.

It was once sung by Arabic and Persian.

He came, teach me the art of seeing my own story

as if it were already ashes in memory.

The remorse (

I have committed the worst of sins

that a man can commit. I have not been

happy. May the glaciers of oblivion

drag me down and lose me, merciless.

My parents begot me for the

risky and beautiful game of life,

for the earth, the water, the air, the fire.

I let them down. I was not happy. Accomplished

it was not his young will. My mind

applied itself to the symmetrical stubbornness

of art, which interweaves trifles.

They gave me courage. I was not brave.

It does not abandon me.

The shadow of having been unfortunate is always by my side.

Ode to the happy day (Pablo Neruda)

This time let me

be happy,

nothing has happened to anyone,

I am not anywhere, it

just happens

that I am happy

on all four sides

of my heart, walking,

sleeping or writing.

What am I going to do to him, I'm

happy.

I am more innumerable

than the grass

in the meadows,

I feel my skin like a rough tree

and the water below,

the birds above,

the sea like a ring

on my waist,

made of bread and stone, the earth,

the air sings like a guitar.

You by my side in the sand

are sand,

you sing and you are song,

the world

is my soul today,

song and sand,

the world

is your mouth today,

leave me

in your mouth and in the sand

be happy,

be happy because yes, because I breathe

and because you breathe, to

be happy because I touch

your knee

and it is as if I touch

the blue skin of the sky

and its freshness.

Today let

me just

be happy,

with everyone or without everyone,

be happy

with grass

and sand,

be happy

with air and earth,

be happy,

with you, with your mouth,

be happy.

Die slowly (Martha Medeiros)

Those who do not travel, those

who do not read, those

who do not listen to music,

who do not find grace in themselves die slowly.

Those

who destroy their self-love,

who do not allow themselves to be helped, die slowly.

Those

who become a slave to habit die slowly,

repeating the same

routes every day,

who do not change brands,

do not dare to change the color of their

clothing

or do not talk with those who do not

know. Whoever avoids a passion and its whirlwind of emotions

dies slowly, precisely those that return the shine to the eyes and restore the shattered hearts.

He

who does not turn the wheel when unhappy

with his job, or his love, dies slowly,

who does not risk the truth or the uncertain to go

after a dream,

who does not allow himself, not even once in his life, to

flee from sensible advice …

Live today!

Take a chance today!

Do it today!

Do not let yourself die slowly!

Don't stop yourself from being happy!

XXVI - Hallelujah!

Pink and white roses, green branches,

fresh corollas and fresh

bouquets, Joy!

Nests in the warm trees,

eggs in the warm nests,

sweetness, Joy!

The kiss of that

blonde girl, and that of that brunette,

and that of that black woman, Alegría!

And the belly of that little

fifteen year old, and her

harmonious arms, Joy!

And the breath of the virgin forest,

and that of the female virgins,

and the sweet rhymes of Dawn,

Joy, Joy, Joy!

Happiness (Manuel Acuña)

A blue sky of stars

shining in the immensity;

a bird in love

singing in the forest;

by environment the aromas

of the garden and orange blossom;

next to us the water

gushing from the spring

our hearts close,

our lips much more,

you lifting yourself up to heaven

and I following you there,

that is love my life,

that is happiness!…

Cross

the worlds of the ideal with the same wings;

rush all the joys,

and all the good rush;

from dreams and happiness

back to reality,

waking up among the flowers

of a spring lawn;

the two of us looking at each other a lot,

the two of us kissing more,

that is love, my life,

that is happiness…!

Remorse (Jorge Luis Borges)

I have committed the worst of sins

that a man can commit. I have not been

happy. May the glaciers of oblivion

drag me down and lose me, merciless.

My parents begot me for the

risky and beautiful game of life,

for the earth, the water, the air, the fire.

I let them down. I was not happy. Accomplished

it was not his young will. My mind

applied itself to the symmetrical stubbornness

of art, which interweaves trifles.

They gave me courage. I was not brave.

It does not abandon me.

The shadow of having been unfortunate is always by my side.

-We pretend that I am happy (Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz)

Let's pretend I'm happy,

sad thought, for a while;

Perhaps you will be able to persuade

me, although I know the opposite,

that because only in apprehension they

say that the damages lie,

if you imagine yourself happy

you will not be so unhappy.

Serve me the understanding

sometime of rest,

and the ingenuity is not always

with the benefit found.

Everyone has opinions

of opinion so different

that what one is black

proves the other is white.

For some

what is attractive is what another conceives of anger;

and what this one for relief,

that one has for work.

He who is sad, censures

the cheerful as light;

and the one who is happy makes fun

of seeing the sad one suffering.

The two Greek philosophers

well proved this truth:

for what in the one laughter

caused the other to cry.

His opposition

has been famous for so many centuries,

without which one was correct, is

until now ascertained.

Before, in its two flags

the world all enlisted, as

the humor dictates,

each one follows the side.

One says that

only the diverse world is worthy of laughter;

and another, that their misfortunes

are only for mourners.

For everything there is proof

and reason on which to found it;

and there is no reason for anything, if

there is reason for so much.

All are equal judges;

and being equal and several,

no one can decide

which is the most successful.

Well, if there is no one to sentence him,

why do you think, wrongly,

that God committed

the decision of the cases to you?

Or why, against yourself,

severely inhuman,

between the bitter and the sweet, do

you want to choose the bitter?

If my understanding is mine,

why should I always find it

so dull for relief,

so sharp for harm?

The speech is a steel

that serves for both ends:

to kill, by the tip,

by the pommel, of protection.

If you, knowing the danger,

want to use it from the tip,

what is the fault of the steel for

the misuse of the hand?

It is not knowing, knowing how to make

subtle, vain speeches;

that knowledge consists only

of choosing the healthiest.

Speculating the misfortunes

and examining the omens, it

only serves that the evil

grows with anticipation.

In future jobs,

attention, subtly,

more formidable than risk,

usually feigns the threat.

How happy is the ignorance

of the one who, indolently wise,

finds what he suffers,

in what he ignores, sacred!

They do not always climb safe

flights of daring ingenuity,

who seek a throne in fire

and find a grave in weeping.

It is also a vice to know,

that if you do not stop, the

less you know

the damage is more harmful;

and if the flight does not bring you down,

in primitive subtleties,

by taking care of the curious you

forget what is necessary.

If the cultured hand does not prevent

the crowned tree from growing, the madness of the branches

takes away the substance from the fruit

If riding a light ship

does not interfere with heavy ballast,

the flight that is

the highest precipice serves.

In useless amenity,

what does it matter to the flowery field,

if autumn does not find fruit,

that it bears flowers in May?

Of what use is it to ingenuity to

produce many births,

if the multitude is followed by

the failure of aborting them?

And this misery

must necessarily be followed by the failure

to be the one who produces,

if not dead, hurt.

Ingenuity is like fire,

which, with ungrateful matter,

consumes it more

when it shows itself more clearly.

He is

such a rebellious vassal of his own Lord,

that he makes his offenses

the weapons of his protection.

This lousy exercise,

this heavy toil, God gave

in the eyes of men

to exercise them.

What crazy ambition takes

us from forgotten ourselves?

If it is to live so little,

what is the use of knowing so much?

Oh, if as it is to know,

there was some seminary

or school where to ignore

the works were taught!

How happily would he live

who, lazily cautious,

mocked the threats

of the influence of the stars!

Let us learn to ignore,

thought, for we find

that as much as I add to discourse,

I usurp the years so much.

Spring Song (Federico García Lorca)

I

The happy children come out

of the school,

Putting in the warm air

Of April, tender songs.

What joy the deep

Silence of the alley has!

A silence shattered

by laughter of new silver.

II

I am on my way in the afternoon

Among flowers in the garden,

Leaving on the road the

water of my sadness.

In the lonely mountain

A village cemetery

It looks like a field sown

With grains of skulls.

And cypress trees have blossomed

Like giant heads

That with empty orbits

And greenish hair

Thoughtful and suffering

The horizon they contemplate.

Divine April, that you come

loaded with sun and essences,

filled with nests of gold,

the flowery skulls!

He told me one afternoon (Antonio Machado)

He told me one

spring afternoon:

If you look for paths

in bloom on earth,

kill your words

and hear your old soul.

May the same white linen

that you

wear be your dueling

outfit, your party outfit.

Love your joy

and love your sadness,

if you are looking for paths

in bloom on earth.

I responded to

the spring afternoon:

-You have told the secret

that prays in my soul:

I hate joy

because I hate pain.

But before I step on

your flowery path,

I would like to bring you

my old soul dead.

In you I enclosed my hours of joy (José Martí)

In you I locked my hours of joy

And of bitter pain;

Allow at least that in your hours I leave

My soul with my goodbye.

I go to a huge house where they have told me

What is life expiring.

The homeland takes me there. For my country, To die is to enjoy more.

Poem lost in a few verses (Julia de Burgos)

And if they said that I am like a devastated twilight

where sadness has already fallen asleep!

Simple mirror where I collect the world.

Where I touch loneliness with my happy hand.

My ports have arrived, gone after the ships

as if wanting to flee from their nostalgia.

The dull moons

that I left with my name shouting duels have returned to my flash

until all the silent shadows were mine.

My pupils have returned tied to the sun of his love dawn.

Oh love entertained in stars and doves,

how happy dew crosses my soul!

Happy! Happy! Happy!

Huge in cosmic agile gravitations,

without reflection or anything…

-Locus amoenus (Garcilaso de la Vega)

Streams pure, crystalline waters,

trees that you are looking at each other in them,

green meadow full of fresh shade,

birds that here you sow your quarrels,

ivy that you walk through the trees,

twisting your step through its green bosom:

I saw myself so oblivious to

the grave I feel

that out of pure contentment

with your loneliness I was recreating myself,

where I rested with sweet sleep,

or with my thoughts I ran

through where I found

only memories full of joy.

Are they all happy? (Luis Cernuda)

The honor of living with glorious honor,

Patriotism towards the nameless homeland,

Sacrifice, the duty of yellow lips,

They are not worth an iron

gradually devouring some sad body because of themselves.

Down with virtue, order, misery;

Down with everything, everything, except defeat,

Defeat to the teeth, until that frozen space

From a head split in two through loneliness,

Knowing nothing but living is being alone with death.

Not even waiting for that bird with the arms of a woman,

With a man's voice, deliciously obscured,

Because a bird, even if it is in love, does

not deserve to wait for it, like any monarch It

waits for the towers to ripen to rotten fruits.

Let's cry out only,

Let's scream to a whole wing,

To sink so many skies,

Touching then solitudes with a dissected hand.

Words for Julia (José Agustín Goytosolo)

You cannot go back

because life is already pushing you

like an endless howl.

My daughter, it is better to live

with the joy of men

than to cry before the blind wall.

You will feel cornered,

you will feel lost or alone,

maybe you will want not to have been born.

I know very well that they will tell you

that life has no purpose

that it is an unfortunate affair.

So always remember

what one day I wrote

thinking of you as I think now.

Life is beautiful, you will see

how despite the regrets

you will have friends, you will have love.

A man alone, a woman

thus taken, one by one they

are like dust, they are nothing.

But when I speak to you,

when I write these words,

I also think of other people.

Your destiny is in others,

your future is your own life,

your dignity is everyone's.

Others hope that you resist

that your joy helps them with

your song among their songs.

So always remember

what one day I wrote

thinking of you

as I think now.

Never surrender or stray

along the road, never say

I can't take it anymore and here I stay.

Life is beautiful, you will see

how despite the regrets

you will have love, you will have friends.

Otherwise there is no choice

and this world as it is

will be all your heritage.

Forgive me, I don't know how to tell you

anything else, but you understand

that I'm still on the road.

And always always remember

what one day I wrote

thinking of you as I think now

To the dry elm (Antonio Machado)

The old elm, split by lightning

and in its half rotten,

with the April rains and the May sun,

some green leaves have sprung up.

The centenary elm on the hill

that laps the Duero! A yellowish moss

stains the whitish bark

of the rotten and dusty trunk.

It will not be, like the singing poplars

that guard the road and the bank,

inhabited by brown nightingales.

An army of ants in a row

is climbing up it, and

spiders wove their gray webs in its entrails.

Before he knocks you down, Duero elm,

with his ax the woodcutter, and the carpenter

turn you into the mane of a bell,

spear of cart or yoke of cart;

Before red in the home, tomorrow, you

burn from some miserable hut, on

the edge of a road;

before a whirlwind takes you down

and cuts off the breath of the white mountains;

Before the river to the sea pushes you

through valleys and ravines,

elm, I want to write down in my portfolio

the grace of your green branch.

My heart

also waits, towards the light and towards life,

another miracle of spring.

Twelve on the clock (Jorge Guillén)

I said: Everything already full.

A poplar tree vibrated.

The silver blades

rang with love.

Greens were gray,

Love was sunshine.

Then, noon,

A bird plunged

Its song into the wind

With such adoration

That it felt sung

Under the wind the flower

Grown among the harvests,

Higher. It was I, the

Center at that moment

Of so much around,

Who saw everything

Complete for a god.

I said: Everything, complete.

Twelve on the clock!

The voice (Herberto Padilla)

It is not the guitar that cheers up

or drives away fear at midnight

It is not its round and tame staff

like a bull's eye

It is not the hand that grazes or clings to the strings

searching for sounds

but the human voice when it sings

and spreads the dreams of man.

Right now (Walt Whitman)

At this moment, sitting alone, longing and thoughtful,

It seems to me that in other lands there are other men who are also yearning and thoughtful,

It seems to me that I can look further afield and see them in Germania, Italy, France, Spain,

And far, even more, in China, or in Russia, or in Japan, speaking other dialects,

And I think that if it were possible for me to meet these men

with them I would unite myself, just as I do with the men of my own land,

Oh! I understand that we would become brothers and lovers,

I know that I would become happy with them.

The Beauty (Herman Hesse)

Half of the beauty depends on the landscape;

and the other half of the person looking at her…

The brightest sunrises; the most romantic sunsets;

the most incredible paradises;

they can always be found on the faces of loved ones.

When there are no lakes clearer and deeper than your eyes;

when there are no caves of wonders comparable to her mouth;

when there is no rain to overcome their crying;

nor sun that shines more than her smile…

Beauty does not make the possessor happy;

but who can love and adore her.

That is why it is so nice to look at each other when those faces

become our favorite landscapes….

LXVII (Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer)

How beautiful it is to see the day

crowned with fire rise,

and its kiss of fire

the waves shine and the air ignite!

How beautiful it is after the rain

of the sad Autumn in the bluish afternoon,

from the wet flowers

the perfume breathe in until it is satisfied!

How beautiful it is when

the white silent snow falls in flakes,

from the restless flames

see the reddish tongues waving!

How beautiful it is when there is sleep to

sleep well… and snore like a sochantre…

and eat… and gain weight… and what a fortune

that this alone is not enough!

The pure air ran (Ricardo Peña)

Pure air ran

through my black hair.

My white dream was

a very fine petal.

An opal that the air

kissed with delight.

How nice that

the sea smelled countryside, the slight breeze.

City of paradise, to my city of Malaga (Vicente Aleixandre)

My eyes always see you, city of my marine days.

Hanging from the imposing mountain, barely stopped

in your vertical fall to the blue waves,

you seem to reign under the sky, over the waters,

intermediate in the air, as if a happy hand

had held you, a moment of glory, before sinking forever in the loving waves.

But you are tough, you never descend, and the sea sighs

or roars for you, city of my joyous days,

mother city and very white where I lived and I remember,

angelic city that, higher than the sea, presides over its foams.

Barely, mild, musical streets. Gardens

where tropical flowers raise their youthful thick palms.

Palms of light that overhead, winged,

sway the brightness of the breeze and suspend

for an instant heavenly lips that cross

to the remote, magical islands,

that there in the indigo blue, freed, sail.

There I also lived, there, a funny city, a deep city.

There, where young people slide on the friendly stone,

and where the shining walls always kiss

those who always cross, kettles, in brilliance.

There I was led by a maternal hand.

Perhaps from a flowery fence a sad guitar

sang the sudden song suspended in time;

still the night, quieter the lover,

under the eternal moon that instantaneously passes.

A breath of eternity could destroy you,

prodigious city, moment that in the mind of a God you emerged.

Men lived for a dream, they did not live,

eternally bright as a divine breath.

Gardens, flowers. Sea encouraging like an arm that yearns

for the flying city between mountain and abyss,

white in the air, with the quality of a suspended bird

that never above. Oh city not on earth!

By that maternal hand I was carried lightly

through your lifeless streets. Bare foot in the day.

Foot naked at night. Big moon. Pure sun.

There the sky was you, the city that you lived in.

City that you flew in with your open wings.

Oltre la rough (Dante Alighieri)

Beyond the slower rolling orb

comes the sigh that my chest exhales: a

new intellect with which Love climbs

heavenly height on the wings of lament.

When he reaches the peak of his attempt, he

sees the Woman that no other can match

for her splendor: whom everything points to

as Love for the highest performance.

Seeing her like this, with a subtle, ardent voice,

Love speaks to the aching heart

that questions it and does not understand anything.

It is I who speak to me and in

front of Beatriz's beautiful membership, everything flashes

and my enlightened mind understands it.

I am vertical (Sylvia Plath)

I am vertical.

But I would rather be horizontal.

I am not a tree with its roots in the earth

absorbing minerals and maternal love

so that the leaves bloom every March,

nor am I the beauty of the garden

of striking colors that attracts exclamations of admiration,

ignoring that it will soon lose its petals.

Compared to me, a tree is immortal

and a flower, though not as tall, is more striking,

and I want the longevity of one and the bravery of the other.

Tonight, under the infinitesimal light of the stars,

the trees and flowers have shed their fresh scents.

I walk among them, but they don't realize it.

Sometimes I think that when I'm sleeping

I must seem to them perfectly,

obscured and thoughts.

It's more natural for me to lie down.

It is then that the sky and I converse freely,

and thus I will be useful when I finally tend:

then the trees can touch me for once,

and the flowers will have time for me.

Pleasure (Charlotte Brõnte)

True Pleasure is not breathed in the city,

Nor in the temples where Art inhabits,

Nor in palaces and towers where

The voice of Greatness is stirred.

No. Seek where High Nature holds

Her court amidst majestic groves,

Where She unleashes all her riches,

Moving in fresh beauty;

Where thousands of birds with the sweetest voices,

Where the wild storm rages

And thousands of streams slide softly,

There its powerful concert is formed.

Go where the wrapped forest dreams,

Bathed in the pale moonlight,

Towards the vault of branches that cradle

The hollow sounds of the Night.

Go where the inspired nightingale

Start vibrations with his song,

Until all the lonely and still valley

Sounds like a circular symphony.

Go, sit on a mountain ledge

And look at the world around you;

The hills and the hollows,

The sound of the ravines,

The distant horizon tied.

Then look at the wide sky above your head,

The motionless, deep dome of blue,

The sun casting its golden rays,

The clouds like pearls of azure.

And while your gaze rests on this vast scene

Your thoughts will certainly travel far,

Though unknown years should traverse between

The swift and fleeting moments of Time.

Towards the age where the Earth was young,

When the Fathers, gray and old,

Praised their God with a song,

Listening in silence to his mercy.

You will see them with their snow beards,

In broadly shaped clothes,

Their peaceful lives, gently floating, They

rarely felt the passion of the storm.

Then a quiet, solemn pleasure will penetrate

In the most intimate part of your mind;

In that delicate aura your spirit will feel

a new and silent softness.

In my garden a bird advances (Emily Dickinson)

In my garden a bird advances

on a wheel with spokes-

of persistent music

like a wandering mill-

He never

lingers on the ripe rose - he

tries without resting,

praises when leaving, When he tasted all the flavors-

his magic cabriolet is

going to whirl in the distance-

then I approach my dog, and we both wonder

if our vision was real-

or if we had dreamed of the garden

and those curiosities-

But he, being more logical,

points to my clumsy eyes -

the vibrant flowers!

Subtle answer!

The bells are tolling for you (John Donne)

Who doesn't take a look at the sun when it gets dark?

who takes their eyes off a comet when it crashes?

Who doesn't listen to a bell when it rings for some reason?

Who can ignore that bell whose music takes him out of this world?

No man is an island of his own.

Each man is a piece of the continent, a part of the whole.

If the sea takes a piece of land, all of Europe is diminished,

as if it were a promontory, or the house of one of your friends, or your own.

No person is an island; the death of anyone affects me,

because I am united to all humanity;

so never ask who the bell tolls for; double for you.

Stay close to my heart (Rumi)

My heart, stay close to the one who knows your ways

Come under the shade of the tree that comforts with fresh flowers,

Do not walk carelessly through the perfumers' bazaar,

Stay in the sugar store.

If you don't find the true balance, anyone can deceive you:

Anyone can decorate something made of straw

AND make you take it for gold.

Do not bow down with a bowl before any boiling pot.

In each pot on the stove, you will find very different things:

Not in all canes there is sugar, not in all abysses there are peaks;

Not all eyes can see, not all seas abound with pearls.

Oh nightingale, with your voice of dark honey! Keep on regretting it!

Only your ecstasy can penetrate the hard heart of the rock!

Surrender and if the Friend does not welcome you,

You will know that your interior is revealing itself like a thread

that does not want to go through the eye of a needle!

The awakened heart is a lamp, protect it with the hem of your cloak!

Hurry and escape this wind because the weather is adverse.

And when you have escaped, you will reach a source

And there you will find a Friend who will always nourish your soul

And with your soul always fertile, you will become a great tree that grows inwardly

Bearing sweet fruit forever.

I sing to myself (Walt Whitman)

I sing for myself, a simple and isolated person,

Yet I pronounce the word democracy, the word Mass.

I sing to the human organism from head to toe,

The only motives of my Muse are not the physiognomy alone nor the brain alone,

I say that the complete Form is worthy,

And I sing to the woman the same as I sing to the Male.

Life immense in passion, pulse, power,

Happy life, formed in the most free action,

under the rule of divine laws. I

sing to the Modern man.

Stones in the window (Mario Benedetti)

From time to time, joy throws pebbles against my window.

He wants to let me know he's there waiting, but I feel calm, I would almost say equanimous.

I'm going to hide my anguish and then lie down facing the ceiling, which is a gallant and comfortable position to filter news and believe it.

Who knows where my next footprints are or when my story will be computed, who knows what advice I will still invent and what shortcut I will find to avoid following them.

Okay, I will not play eviction, I will not tattoo the memory with forgetfulness, much remains to be said and silenced and there are also grapes to fill the mouth.

Okay, I am convinced that joy will not throw more pebbles, I will open the window, I will open the window.