26 POEMS OF THE REALISM OF THE MOST IMPORTANT AUTHORS - LITERATURE - 2025

The poems of realism were the exponent of a literary trend that was promoted in Europe in the mid-nineteenth century, due to the natural exhaustion that the predecessor current was presenting: Romanticism.

In realism, certain romantic canons such as costumbrismo were maintained, but he moved away from the imaginative and trivial to return to a more objective view of the world: to present society as it was, even with its defects. The latter was gaining ground and this trend led to another called Naturalism.

Although in the literary field, the genre that was most cultivated was the novel - which was delivered in parts in European newspapers - poetry also found its place at the hands of prominent authors of the time.

List of poems by important authors of realism

Pains

Love and glory

On sand and on wind

the sky has founded everything!

The same is the world of mud

as the world of feeling. Only air and sand are

the foundation of love and glory

.

Towers with which the

world and hearts fill illusion;

those of the world are sand,

and air those of the heart!

Author: Ramón de Campoamor

The kingdom of drunkards

He once had a kingdom so many drunkards,

that it can be said that they were all,

in which by just law it was prevented:

-Nobody tastes the wine.-

With joy the craziest

applauded the law, for costing little: obey it

later, now is another step;

But in the end, it is the case

that they gave it a very different

slant, believing that only red wine was forbidden,

and in the most frank way

they later got tipsy with white wine.

Surprised that the people do not understand her.

The Senate makes an amendment to the law,

and that of: No one tastes the wine, he

added, white, apparently, wisely.

Respecting the amendment the populace,

returned with red wine to be drunk, believing instinctively, but what instinct!

that the private one in this case was not the red wine.

Once the Senate has run,

in the second amendment, in cash

-None taste the wine,

be it white, be it red, - he warned them;

and the people, to get out of the new jam,

then mixed the white with red wine;

finding another escape in this way,

for it was neither white nor red then.

Third time mocked,

- said the Senate;

It is forbidden to mix wine with wine> -

But how much a rebellious people forges!

Do you think that he then mixed it with water?

The Senate then left the post,

thus when he ceased he gave a manifesto:

The law is a network, in which

a mesh is always broken,

whereby the base man who does not trust in his reason,

evades suspicious… How well he said !

And in the rest I agree

that he should say, if he did not say it:

The law never confronts

the one whose infamy is equal to his malice:

if it is to be obeyed, the bad is good;

but if it is to be avoided, good is bad.

Author: Ramón de Campoamor

To Voltaire

You are formidable battering ram: nothing

Resist your satanic irony.

Across the grave still

Your raucous laugh resounds.

Fell under your steely satire

How much human stupidity believed, And today reason no longer serves as a guide

To the regenerated offspring of Adam.

It only influences his immortal destiny

The free religion of ideas;

Already the wretched faith came to earth;

The Christ is already collapsing; already the teas

They illuminate the mysteries of the road;

You already won, Voltaire. Screw you!

Author: Gaspar Nuñez de Arce

The Mistress (Fragment)

I learned at home what

the most perfect happiness is based on,

and to make it mine

I wanted to be like my father was

and I looked for a woman like my mother

among the daughters of my noble land.

And I was like my father, and my wife was the

living image of the dead mother.

A miracle of God, what

another woman like that saint did to me !

My only loves shared my

loving companion,

the idolized homeland,

the manor house,

with the inherited history,

with the inherited estate.

How good was the wife

and how fertile the land!

How happy was my house

and how healthy my estate,

and how solidly was

the tradition of honesty attached to them!

A simple farmer, humble,

daughter of a dark Castilian village;

A hardworking, honest,

Christian, kind, loving and serious woman

turned my house into an adorable idyll

that no poet could dream of.

Oh, how

the painful bustle of chores softens

when there is love at home

and with it much bread is kneaded in it

for the poor who live in its shadow,

for the poor who struggle for it!

And how much they appreciate it, without saying it,

and how much they care about the house,

and how they take care of it,

and how God increases it!

The Christian woman could

do everything, the discreet woman achieved everything.

Life in the farmhouse

revolved around her

peaceful and friendly,

monotonous and serene…

And how joy and work

where virtue is interpenetrate!

When washing in the crystalline stream

the girls

sang, and the cowboy sang in the valleys,

and the young men sang in the lands,

and the water

carrier on the way to the fountain, and the goat on the bare slope…

And I also sang,

that she and the countryside they made me a poet!

The balance

of that serene soul sang

like the wide skies,

like the fields of my beloved land;

And he also sang those fields,

those of the brown, undulating slopes,

those of the seas of waxed harvests,

those of the mute serious perspectives,

those of the chaste deep solitudes,

those of the gray dead distances…

The soul was soaked

in the solemn classical grandeur

that filled the open realms

of heaven and earth.

How placid the atmosphere,

how calm the landscape, how serene

the bluish atmosphere spread out

over the beam of the immense plain!

The afternoon breeze

stirred, lovingly, the avenue,

the flowery brambles of the fence,

the cherries of the meadow,

the harvest of the leaf,

the green glass of the old oak…

Mono-rhythmic music of the plain,

how pleasant your sound, what sweet it was!

The shepherd's bagpipes on the hill

cried the tunes of the earth,

loaded with sweetness,

loaded with monotonous sadness,

and within the sense

the cadences fell

like golden drops

of sweet honey that flowed from the honeycomb.

Life was solemn;

the thought was pure and serene;

the feeling calm, like the breezes;

The love is mute and strong, the pains are meek,

the pleasures are

tame, the beliefs are

stale, the bread is tasty, the sleep is restorative,

the good is easy, and the conscience is pure.

What desires the soul

had to be good,

and how it was filled with tenderness

when God told it that it was!

Author: José María Gabriel y Galán

Ecce Homo!

I have lived

alone with me

for twenty-four years and I have wanted to

divorce myself for four years.

Everything that surrounds

me causes me deep boredom,

and if I enter myself, what I see frightens

and horrifies me…

My head is vast,

dark and dark chaos

from which a world will never emerge,

and my heart is a circus

in which they fight like wild beasts

my virtues and my vices.

Without a star in my sky,

in a black night I walk;

I look for flowers and I find thistles, I

perceive a celestial aroma,

I run to him, and when I run, blind,

my feet find emptiness;

It is impossible to stop,

I fall rolling into an abyss, I manage to grab a rose…

and it comes off with me!

Today I can neither love nor feel…

Oh! when I think that I have been

happy… that I could be…

One day, a cursed day,

a desire to know crazy,

made my spirit taste

the, forbidden, inviting

fruit of the forbidden tree

of good and evil… Science

threw me from paradise!

Cruel she,

my eyes have turned into microscopes;

I look at the one where others see pure water

full of infusoria,

and where they find love they

only discover selfishness.

There are those who at night, in the forest,

are enchanted by the pure brilliance

of a light that enters the leaves

it makes its way out of the grass;

I don't, I can't enchant myself

and I approach that light,

until I find the worm…

and I do the same in the world!

And if life causes me

boredom and annoyance,

just thinking about death

gives me chills.

Bad if I live, and worse if I die,

see if I will be amused…

If the beings of the earth

all live

as I live, since there is God (if there is) I do not understand

why we were born!…

Damn my luck

and the damn day

they sent me into the world

without consulting me!…

Author: Joaquín María Bartrina

Homeland

I.

Wanting me one day

Know what the Homeland is, An old man told me

How much he loved her:

«The Homeland feels;

They have no words

That of course they explain it

Human languages.

»There, where all

Things speak to us

With a voice that deep down

Penetrates the soul;

»There, where it begins

The short journey

That man in the world

The heavens point;

»There, where the song

Maternal cooed

The cradle that the Angel

Guardian veil;

»There, where on land

Blessed and sacred

From grandparents and parents

The remains rest;

»There, where it raises

Your roof the house

Of our elders…

There is the Homeland.

II.

»The deep valley, The rough mountain

That they saw happy

Running our childhood;

»The old ruïnas

Of graves and of sakes

What cloaks do they wear today

Of ivy and bush;

»The tree that fruits

And shadow gave us

To the harmonious son

Of the bird and the aura;

»Memories, loves, Sadness, hopes,

What sources have been

Of joys and tears;

»The image of the temple, The rock and the beach

That neither years nor absences

From the spirit they start;

»The familiar voice, The young woman who passes

The flower that you have watered,

And the field that you till;

»Already in a sweet concert, Already in isolated notes, You will hear that they tell you:

Here is the Homeland.

III.

»The ground you walk on

And flaunts the finery

Of art and industry

Of all your race

»It is not the work of a day

That the wind breaks;

Labor is centuries

Of sorrows and feats.

»In him had origin

The faith that inflames you;

In him your affections

More nobles take root:

»In it they have written

Plowshares and swords,

Brushes and pens, Burins and exploits, Gloomy annals, Enchanting stories

And in eternal traits

Your people portray.

»And so much to his life

Yours is linked, Which joins in a tree

To the trunk the branch.

»Therefore present

Or in remote areas, Wherever with you

Homeland always goes.

IV.

»It does not matter that the man, May your land be ungrateful,

Let hunger afflict her, Let pests invade her;

What vile executioners

The slave dessert, Breaking the laws

More just and holy;

»What eternal nights

The mists bring you, And never the stars

Your desired light;

»Ask the outlaw,

Ask the wanderer

For her without a roof, Without peace and without calm;

»Ask if they can

Never forget her, If in sleep and wake

They do not cry out for her!

"It does not exist, in their eyes, Most beautiful abode, Neither in the field nor in the sky

None equals it.

»Maybe all united

Tell each other tomorrow:

«My God is yours, My Pátria your Pátria. »

Author: Ventura Ruiz Aguilera

Recipe for a new art

Mix without concert, by chance,

the lake, the neurosis, the delirium,

Titania, the dream, Satan, the lily,

the dragonfly, the punch and the sculpture;

dissolve in Hellenic tincture

auroral pallor and candlelight,

wish Musset and Baudelaire martyrdom,

and tongue and rhyme put yourselves in torture.

Then pass the thick concoction

by alembic to the vain brain

of a blue bard from the last batch

and you will have that sovereign jargon

that is Góngora dressed in French

and covered in American compote.

Author: Emilio Ferrari

The human life

Candles of love in gulfs of tenderness

fly my poor heart to the wind

and finds, in what it reaches, its torment, and hopes, in what he does not find, his luck, living in this human grave

deceive regret is my contentment, and this atrocious sackcloth of thought

there is no boundary between genius and madness.

Oh! in the mean life that the madman seizes, and that the unhappy sane of horror dismays, sweet in name, actually bitter,

only pain with alternate pain, and if when counting it to days it is very long, measured by hours it is eternal.

Author: Ramón de Campoamor

Closer to you

Closer to you I feel

the more I run from you

because your image is in me

shadow of my thought.

Never, even if you are complaining, your complaints I can hear, because since you are so beautiful, I can't hear you, I watch you speak.

Be patient, heart

which is better, what I see, desire without possession

What a desireless possession

Because in sweet confidence

I once spoke to you

all my life i spent

speaking with my hope.

Tell me again today, Well, rapt yesterday

I listened to you without hearing

and looked at you without seeing.

After you cross a bundle

I saw for the carpet;

blind, the dagger buried…

and it was your shadow.

How foolish, I love you, even out of jealousy

your shadow killed!

TO THE EAR (1)

Let me penetrate this ear

the right way to my good, and in the deepest corner of your chest

let me build my loving nest.

Eternally happy and hidden

I will live to occupy it satisfied…

Of so many worlds as God has made

this space no more to God I ask!

I no longer lust long fame

nor the applause that follows victory

nor the glory of so many coveted…

I want to encrypt my fame in your memory;

I want to find my applause in your eyes;

and in your arms of love all my glory.

Author: Adelardo López

L

It's her!… Love, her steps lead…

I feel the soft rustle of her dress…

Which sky by the divided ray, my spirit suddenly lights up.

A thousand yearnings, with the sudden bliss,

they stir in my heart moved, which chicks are boiling in the nest

when the tender mother is coming.

My good! My love !: For the bright and clear

look of your eyes, with longing

penetrates the soul, of your greedy being!…

Oh! Nor the fallen angel more consolation

I could enjoy, if I penetrated

second time in the region of heaven!

Author: Adelardo López

TO

Oh Musa, that in combat

of life, you have not had,

to your honor worshiping, flattery for the tycoon

insults for the defeated, no applause for the tumult!

As in days of fighting

if the pity does not dull

or seize your thoughts, today raise your song, and let it be

a moan every note

and each stanza a lament.

Before the immense break

of beautiful Andalusia, give way to your fierce anguish;

but don't stop crying

proclaim oh my Muse!

the truth, always severe.

Your feelings silence, because immoderate zeal

the miserable vanishes, and in this human battle

who flatters the wretch

it does not encourage him: it debases him.

Tell him rather: «-Go ahead!

Fulfill your rude task

and cries, but works;

that the firm and constant man

the ravages of his grief

with the own effort it cuts off.

»Don't be at the foot of the ruins,,

like a useless beggar, indolent and downcast, and when the swallows return

they will work on the eaves

of your new house the nest.

»Plows, sows, rebuilds, fight against the current

of the misfortune in which you live,

and exalt and sanctify

with the sweat of your brow

The gift you receive ».

Speak to him thus, honored Muse, and in your noble magisterium

never desecrate your lyre, With flattery waned, with the clumsy vituperation

nor with the low lie.

Author: Gaspar Nuñez

TO

He wanted to impose his memory on the world

a king, in his excessive pride, and by thousands of slaves built

erected this mortuary pyramid.

Sterile and vain dream! Already history

he does not remember his name or his life, that blind time in its swift run

left the grave and took the glory.

The dust that in the hollow of your hand

the traveler contemplates absorbed, has he been

part of a servant or part of the tyrant?

Ah! everything is mixed up and confused, that God keeps for human pride

just an eternity: that of oblivion.

Author: Gaspar Nuñes

Photographs

Pantoja, have courage! Break the fence:

Look, look on card and letterhead

and the bull that hooked Pepete fits

give birth in hardware stores.

You are a fool. -True.- But hush

your modesty and doubt do not worry you.

What does a fool matter more where he gets

with childish presumption so much trash?

You will be worth a peseta, good Pantoja!

Faces and names are not worth much more

that photography throws to the world.

Show us your face and don't be surprised:

let the future age collect,

so many portraits and so few men.

Author: Gaspar Nuñez de Arce

AND

Señol jues, pasi you more alanti

and what in between those, don't give you craving

do not give you fear…

If you come antiayel to afflict

You're lying at the door But he's already dead!

Seize, seize the accoutrements, there is no money here:

I have spent it on food for her

and in pharmacies that did not serve him;

and that that quea me,

because I didn't have time to sell it, I already have excess, is already getting me!

Embargo esi sacho de pico,

and those jocis nailed to the ceiling, and that security

and that chunk and nit…

Jerramieros, there was not one left!

what do I want them for?

If she had to win it for her, What was it that took that away from me!

But I no longer quio vel esi sacho, nor those jocis nailed to the ceiling, not even that security

nor that chunk and nit…

But a vel, señol jues: be careful

if any of those

it's osao from tocali to that bed

ondi she is dead:

the bed ondi I wanted it

when we were both güenos;

I have taken care of the bed ondi, the bed ondi was her body

four months alive

and a dead night!

Señol jues: let none be osao

from tocali to that bed not a hair, because here I am

delanti you same!

Take it all

all, give me that, that those blankets have

suol from his body…

And I guelin, I guelin her

you see that the güelo!…

Author: Jose Maria Gabriel y Galan

Candida

Do you want Candida to know

which is the best girl?

Well meditate with love

what you are now going to read.

The one who is docile and obedient, the one who prays with blind faith, with innocent abandon.

the one who sings, the one who plays.

The one who turns away from foolishness, the one who eagerly learns

how to embroider a handkerchief, how to write a letter.

The one who can't dance

and yes pray the rosary

and wears a scapular

around the neck, instead of a necklace.

The one who despises or ignores

worldly ravings;

the one who loves her brothers;

and his mother adores.

The one that fills with candor

sing and laugh nobly;

work, obey and pray…

That's the best girl!

II

Do you want to know, Candidita, you, who will aspire to heaven, which is perfect model

of a young Christian?

The one who is getting closer to God, the one that, when she stopped being a girl, with his house he loves

and the street is forgetting.

The one that embroiders scapulars

instead of rosettes;

the one who reads few novels

and many devotionals.

The one that is simple and is good

and knows that it is not disgrace, after embroidering in gold

start cooking dinner.

The one that is pure and collected, the one who estimates her decorum

like a precious treasure

worth more than your life.

That humble young lady, noble image of modesty, is the best model

that you have to imitate, Candidita.

III

And do you want to finally know

what is the finished type, the model and the paragon

of the perfect woman?

The one who knows how to preserve

his honor pure and collected:

the one that is honor of the husband

and joy of home.

The noble Christian woman

strong and generous soul, to whom he gives his pious faith

sovereign fortress.

That of his children faithful pledge

and loving educator;

the wise administrator

of his house and his estate.

The one marching ahead, carry the heaviest cross

and walks resigned

giving example and giving courage.

The one who knows how to suffer

the one who knows how to love

and knows how to carry

down the path of duty.

The one that the home sanctifies,

the one who invokes God in him, the one that everything touches

it ennobles and dignifies it.

The one who knows how to be a martyr

and faith to all knows how to give, and teaches them to pray

and teaches them to grow.

The one that brings that faith to light

and the impulse of his example

builds a temple in his house

to work and virtue…

The one that God achieves

is the perfect woman, And that's how you have to be

so that God bless you!

Author: José María Gabriel y Galán

Homeland

Wanting me one day

Know what the Homeland is, An old man told me

How much he loved her:

«The Homeland feels;

They have no words

That of course they explain it

Human languages.

»There, where all

Things speak to us

With a voice that deep down

Penetrates the soul;

»There, where it begins

The short journey

That man in the world

The heavens point;

»There, where the song

Maternal cooed

The cradle that the Angel

Guardian veil;

There where on land

Blessed and sacred

From grandparents and parents

The remains rest;

»There, where it raises

Your roof the house

Of our elders.

There is the Homeland.

II.

»The deep valley, The rough mountain

That they saw happy

Running our childhood;

»The old ruïnas

Of graves and of sakes

What cloaks do they wear today

Of ivy and bush;

»The tree that fruits

And shadow gave us

To the harmonious son

Of the bird and the aura;

»Memories, loves, Sadness, hopes, What sources have been

Of joys and tears;

»The image of the temple,

The rock and the beach

That neither years nor absences

From the spirit they start;

»The familiar voice, The young woman who passes

The flower that you have watered, And the field that you till;

»Already in a sweet concert, Already in isolated notes, You will hear that they tell you:

Here is the Homeland.

III.

»The ground you walk on

And flaunts the finery

Of art and industry

Of all your race

»It is not the work of a day

That the wind breaks;

Labor is centuries

Of sorrows and feats.

»In him had origin

The faith that inflames you;

In him your affections

More nobles take root:

»In it they have written

Plowshares and swords, Brushes and pens, Burins and exploits, Gloomy annals, Enchanting stories

And in eternal traits

Your people portray.

»And so much to his life

Yours is linked, Which joins in a tree

To the trunk the branch.

»Therefore present

Or in remote areas,

Wherever with you

Homeland always goes.

IV.

»It does not matter that the man, May your land be ungrateful, Let hunger afflict her, Let pests invade her;

What vile executioners

The slave dessert, Breaking the laws

More just and holy;

»What eternal nights

The mists bring you, And never the stars

Your desired light;

»Ask the outlaw, Ask the wanderer

For her without a roof, Without peace and without calm;

»Ask if they can

Never forget her, If in sleep and wake

They do not cry out for her!

"It does not exist, in their eyes, Most beautiful abode, Neither in the field nor in the sky

None equals it.

»Maybe all united

Tell each other tomorrow:

«My God is yours, My Pátria your Pátria. »

Author: Ventura Ruiz Aguilera.

Recipe for a new art

Mix without a concert, at random, the lake, the neurosis, the delirium,

Titania, the dream, Satan, the lily, the dragonfly, the punch and the sculpture;

dissolve in Hellenic tincture

auroral pallor and candlelight, wish Musset and Baudelaire martyrdom, and tongue and rhyme put on torture.

Then pass the thick hodgepodge

by alembic to the sesera vain

of a blue bard from the last batch

and you will have that sovereign jargon

what is Góngora dressed in French

and soaked in American compote.

Author: Emilio Ferrari

The new aesthetic

One day, on class matters, the hens signed a uckase, and from the Sinai of the henhouse

they promulgated their law to the whole world.

Available there, in cash, than the robust flight of eagles

must be condemned

like a cheesy lyricism in bad taste;

that, instead of carving nests in the heights, digs, incessantly, in the garbage;

that, to expand the horizons, flush with flush the mountains be beheaded, and leaving all Himalayas at the level, of the dunghill that his corral dominates, henceforth, there is no

more flights than chicken flights.

This the volatile side

he decreed, the invention cackling.

But despite the uproar, I infer

that people later, as usual, He kept admiring the eagle on the summit

and throwing the chickens into the pot.

Author: Emilio Ferrari

To my beauty

Bartrina does not believe in friendship:

«Disillusioned with love, my longing

in friendship he sought sweet consolation

and my life I started with sincere faith;

no (I say wrong: I left), I gave it to him whole

to a friend - who was, I believed.-

But one day a terrible day came!

I had to weigh him on the scale

of interest, and that friend of mine

who I loved with so much excess, it yielded to an ounce of weight ».

Author: Joaquin Mario Bartrina

My four deaths

Bartrina does not believe in conjugal loyalty:

«Before a sacred image

with an anxious heart, with the torn soul, for the health of her husband

a married woman begs sad.

And not your health wishes

for being loyal to his love;

he loves her because

crying makes her ugly

and mourning makes him feel bad.

Author: Joaquin María Bartrina

92 Epistle (Fragment)

No coward will cast clean steel

while hearing the clarion of the fight, soldier that his honor keep whole;

nor the pilot's mood falters

why the hell light your way

and the immense gulf to stir see.

Always fight!… of man is destiny;

and the one who fights undaunted, with burning faith, His divine laurel gives him glory.

For calm he sighs eternally;

but where does it hide, where does it spring

of this immortal thirst the yearned for source?…

In the deep valley, that toils

when the florid season of the year

dresses it in greens and early light;

in the wild peaks, where it nests

the eagle that lays next to the sky

his mansion fought against hurricanes, the limit does not find its longing;

nor because his slave makes luck, after intimate restlessness and sterile mourning.

He only the happy and strong man will be, may he live in peace with his conscience

even the peaceful sleep of death.

What is splendor, what is opulence, the darkness, nor loose mediocrity, if to suffer the crime sentence us?

Peasant's hut, humble and cold, Alcazar de los Reyes, stout, whose altitude defies the mountain, I know well that, invisible as the wind, guest that the soul freezes, has sat

remorse from your home.

What became of the haughty, untamed Corsican

until Spain appeared on the borders

which comet from the broken sky?

The power that his flags gave him

with awe and terror of the nations

Did it satisfy your flattering hopes?…

It fell; and among the barbarian rocks

of his exile, in the night hours

Fateful visions haunted him;

and the auroras gave him sadness, and in the gentle murmur of the breeze

voices he heard accusing moans.

More compliant and more submissive

the will of God, the beautiful soul

that always lacerated briers tread.

Francisco, that's how we saw that

who lulled you in her maternal arms, and today, clothed in light, the stars trace:

that when touching the threshold of the tomb, bathed her sweet face with sweet lightning

the dawn of immortal joys.

Author: Ventura Ruíz Aguilera

I love you

I love you without explanations

calling my feelings love

and kissing your mouth to get excited, I love you without reasons and with reasons, I love you for being you

It's nice to say I love you

but it is more beautiful to say I love you, I'm sorry and I'll show you.

I have no wings to go to heaven

but I have words to say…

i love you

Love is not just a feeling.

It is also an art.

Author: Honoré de Balzac

The friends

In tobacco, in coffee, in wine,

at the edge of the night they rise up

like those voices that sing in the distance

without knowing what, along the way.

Lightly, brothers of fate,

godlike, pale shadows,

the flies of habits frighten me, they hold me

afloat amidst so much whirlpool.

The dead speak more but in the ear,

and the living are a warm hand and a roof, the

sum of what was gained and what was lost.

Thus one day in the boat of the shade,

from so much absence my chest will shelter

this ancient tenderness that names them.

Author: Julio Cortázar.

Final judgment

Woe to you the sad ones

That in such stormy sea

Fighting with the storms

Without hope you float;

Knowing from your damage

That of the route at the end

Only the

raw death will be your prize and no more!

And you those who in vague dreams

Of eternal happiness You

believe in flight in dying

Over the airs to pass,

What reward, wretched ones,

By such blind faith do you wait,

If it is between God and men

Mediating eternity?

And where do you, deceived

In such blind confusion,

Walk, my brothers, Truguas

lending to pain?

If you go, like me, marching,

Full of faith in your heart,

Believing behind the grave,

Go to a better life,

Bend your forehead like me,

Have a quick step,

That by sentence of the same

For us there is no God.

But no, follow your path

To the magical radiance,

With which the sweet hope

Your childhood illuminated;

And oh! If you were eager to run

From your footsteps in pursuit of

your encouraged spark,

I could follow you!

Author: Ramón de Campoamor.

To America

This is Spain! Stunned and injured

under the brutal weight of her misfortune,

inert lies the august matron

who in other centuries weary fame.

The one that sailed the stormy seas

looking for you daring in the mystery,

until one day,

dazzling the world, you emerged, like Venus, from the waves.

Blinded by your splendid beauty,

by setting you in her imperial diadem,

Spain oppressed you; but do not blame her,

because when was the barbaric

just and humane conquest ? He also graciously

gave you his blood, his robust language,

his laws and his God. He gave you everything

except freedom!

Well, I could give you the only good I didn't have.

Contemplate her defeated and humiliated

by doubleness and gold, and if

her ills move you to generous pity,

the tragic collapse of a glory

that is also yours, corner her in her duel.

It's your unhappy mother! Do not leave

your love, in such an immense misfortune.

Author: Gaspar Núñez de Arce.

In the stream

When little by little, in droves,

the people ran towards the raptor,

already, with a jump, he was raised,

his skin bloody,

but his face radiant.

Read in their glances

the heavenly appetite

for those adventures dreamed of

there on frozen nights

of infinite helplessness.

It seemed to wake up

to a higher destiny,

and eagerly to guess

the shelter of home,

the caresses of love.

The angel who slept in him saw

the luminous scales

between his dreams,

and, hopefully, beat

his wings for the last time.

As

soon as he was broken and dusty, he found himself on his feet, with a slow step

beside the lady he stood,

and for a moment he discovered himself,

embarrassed and confused.

She offered him a hand

of the thin, tight glove,

ran to shake it proudly,

and went to give him a superhuman,

a first kiss in his life.

But when he grasped it, he felt,

with the touch of the silk,

something cold, the kiss drowned,

and in his he pressed

the viI payment: a coin.

He even saw the lady, longing,

return, trembling, the grim,

pale face for an instant;

immediately heard, vibrating,

the crack of the whip;

He went with anger and despair,

losing sight of the car,

raised his fists to the sky,

threw the gold against the ground…

and was hungry that night.

Author: Emilio Ferrari.

Other poems of interest

Poems of Romanticism.

Avant-garde poems.

Poems of the Renaissance.

Poems of Futurism.

Poems of Classicism.

Poems of Neoclassicism.

Poems of the Baroque.

Poems of Modernism.

Poems of Dadaism.

Cubist Poems.

References

1. Spanish Literature of Realism. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org.
2. Spanish Realism. Characteristics, Authors and Works. Recovered from uma.es.
3. Outstanding authors of Spanish Realism. Recovered from masterlengua.com.
4. Mr. Ramón de Campoamor. Recovered from los-poetas.com.
5. Painful. Recovered from poemasde.net.
6. "Ecce Homo!", A poem by Joaquín María Bartrina. Recovered from caminoivars.com.
7. José María Gabriel y Galán. Recovered from poemas-del-alma.com.
8. Homeland. Recovered from sabalete.es.
9. Emilio Ferrari. Recovered from poeticas.es.