30 FIVE-STANZA POEMS BY WELL-KNOWN AUTHORS - LITERATURE - 2025

The poems of five stanzas, along with those of four, are usually the structure most used by poets, since it is a length that allows the idea to be transmitted sufficiently to be developed.

A poem is a composition that uses the literary resources of poetry. It can be written in different ways, although the most traditional is in verse, that is, it is made up of phrases or sentences written on separate lines and which are grouped into sections called stanzas.

Each of these lines usually rhyme with each other, that is, a similar vowel sound, especially in the last word of each line or in alternate lines (even and / or odd).

The length of the poems can be unlimited and is not governed by any rule. There are poems with a single line and others whose length can be several pages.

Although poetry can deal with any subject, it has an intrinsic intention to communicate a stylized, sublime and beautiful idea.

Contemporary poetry has many licenses that sometimes do not allow poems to fit into a certain structure.

In this way, we find poems in prose, without rhyme, with asymmetric verses or stanzas, and so on.

You may also be interested in these poems of four stanzas or these of six.

List of five-stanza poems

Farewell

one

From the bottom of you, and kneeling, a sad child, like me, looks at us.

For that life that will burn in your veins

our lives would have to be tied up.

By those hands, daughters of your hands, they would have to kill my hands.

For his eyes wide open on earth

I will see in yours tears one day.

two

I don't want it, Beloved.

So that nothing can tie us down

let nothing join us.

Nor the word that scented your mouth, nor what the words did not say.

Not the love party we didn't have

nor your sobs by the window.

3

(I love sailors love

who kiss and leave.

They leave a promise.

They never come back.

In each port a woman waits:

the sailors kiss and leave.

One night they lie down with death

on the seabed).

4

Love the love that is shared

in kisses, bed and bread.

Love that can be eternal

and it can be fleeting.

Love that wants to free itself

To love again.

Divinized love that draws near

Divinized love that leaves.

5

My eyes will no longer be enchanted in your eyes, my pain will no longer be sweetened with you.

But where I go I will take your gaze

and where you walk you will take my pain.

I was yours, you were mine What else? Together we made

a bend in the road where love passed

I was yours, you were mine You will be the one who loves you

of the one who cuts in your garden what I have sown.

I'm leaving. I am sad: but I am always sad.

I come from your arms. I do not know where I'm going.

… From your heart a child says goodbye to me.

And I say goodbye.

Author: Pablo Neruda.

Do not save yourself

Do not stay motionless on the side of the road, do not freeze the joy, do not want with reluctance, do not save yourself now, or ever.

Don't save yourself, don't be calm, don't reserve just a quiet corner from the world.

Do not drop heavy eyelids like judgments, do not run out of lips, do not fall asleep without sleep, do not think without blood, do not judge yourself without time.

But if in spite of everything you cannot help it and you freeze the joy and you want with reluctance and you save yourself now and you fill yourself with calm and reserves of the world just a quiet corner.

And you drop your heavy eyelids like judgments and you dry without lips and you sleep without sleep and you think without blood and you judge yourself without time and you remain motionless on the side of the road and you are saved, then do not stay with me.

Author: Mario Benedetti.

Supporting my warm forehead

Leaning my warm forehead against

the cold glass of the window,

in the silence of the dark night

of your balcony my eyes did not move away.

In the middle of the mysterious shadow,

his stained glass window was illuminated,

letting my sight penetrate

the pure sanctuary of his room.

His countenance pale as marble;

her blonde hair unbraided,

caressing her silky waves,

her alabaster shoulders and her throat,

my eyes saw her, and my eyes,

seeing her so beautiful, were disturbed.

Look in the mirror; she would

smile sweetly at her beautiful languid image,

and her silent flattery to the mirror

with a most sweet kiss paid…

But the light went out; the pure vision

vanished like a vain shadow,

and I fell asleep,

the crystal that his mouth caressed making me jealous.

Author: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer.

Wish

Only your warm heart,

And nothing else.

My paradise, a field

Without nightingale

Nor lyres,

With a discreet river

And a small fountain.

Without the spur of the wind

On the frond,

Nor the star that wants to

be a leaf.

An enormous light

That was

Firefly

From another,

In a field of

broken looks.

A clear rest

And there our kisses,

Sound polka dots

From the echo,

They would open far away.

And your warm heart,

nothing more.

Author: Federico García Lorca.

The weird kid

That boy had strange manias.

We always pretended that he was a general

who shot all his prisoners.

I remember that time he threw me into the pond

because we pretended I was a red fish.

What a fantasy of their games.

He was the wolf, the father who beats, the lion, the man with the long knife.

He invented the tram game,

and I was the kid the wheels ran over.

A long time later we learned that, behind some distant walls, he was

looking at everyone with strange eyes.

Author: Vicente Aleixandre.

Autumnal Verses

Looking at my cheeks, which were red yesterday,

I felt autumn; his old ailments

have filled me with fear; He told me about the mirror

that snows on my hair while the leaves fall…

What a curious destination! He has knocked on my doors

in the middle of spring to give me snow

and my hands freeze under the slight pressure

of a hundred blue roses on his dead fingers

I already feel totally invaded by ice;

my teeth chatter as the sun outside

casts spots of gold, just like in spring,

and laughs in the deep depths of the sky.

And I cry slowly, with a cursed pain…

with a pain that weighs on all my fibers,

Oh, the pale death that her wedding offers me

and the blurred mystery loaded with infinity!

But I rebel!… How does this human form

that cost matter so many transformations

kill me, chest inside, all the illusions

and offer me the night almost in the middle of the morning?

Author: Alfonsina Storni.

I like it when you shut up

I like you when you are silent because you are absent,

and you hear me from afar, and my voice does not touch you.

It seems that your eyes have flown

and it seems that a kiss closed your mouth.

As all things are full of my soul, you

emerge from things, full of my soul.

Dream butterfly, you resemble my soul,

and you resemble the word melancholy.

I like you when you are quiet and you are like distant.

And you're like complaining, lullaby butterfly.

And you hear me from afar, and my voice does not reach you:

let me be silent with your silence.

Let me also speak to you with your silence

clear as a lamp, simple as a ring.

You are like the night, silent and constellated.

Your silence is from the stars, so far and simple.

I like you when you are silent because you are like absent.

Distant and painful as if you had died.

A word then, a smile is enough.

And I'm glad, glad it's not true.

Author: Pablo Neruda.

Ode XVIII-On the Ascension

And do you leave, Holy Shepherd,

your flock in this deep, dark valley,

with loneliness and weeping;

and you, breaking the pure

air, do you go to the immortal for sure?

The formerly well-off,

and the sad and afflicted agora,

to your breasts raised,

dispossessed of you, to

what will they convert their senses?

What will the eyes

that saw the beauty of your face look at,

that it is not anger?

Whoever heard your sweetness,

what will not be deaf and misfortune?

That troubled sea,

who will stop it now? Who concert

to the fierce, angry wind?

With you undercover,

which north will guide the ship to port?

Oh, cloud, envious

even of this brief joy, what are you grieving?

Do you fly in a hurry?

How rich you walk away!

How poor and how blind, alas, you leave us!

Author: Fray Luis de León.

The Labyrinth 2

Zeus could not untie the

stone nets that surround me. I have forgotten

the men I was before; I follow the hated

path of drab walls

which is my destiny. Straight galleries

that curve in secret circles

over the years. Parapets

that the usury of the days has cracked.

In the pale dust I have deciphered

traces that I fear. The air has brought me

in the concave afternoons a roar

or the echo of a desolate roar.

I know that in the shadow there is Another, whose luck

is to wear out the long solitudes that weave and unweave this Hades

and to long for my blood and to devour my death.

We look for the two of us. I wish

this was the last day of the wait.

Author: Jorge Luis Borges.

Night

To Mariano de Cavia

Those of you who listened to the heart of the night,

those who, due to persistent insomnia, have heard

the closing of a door, the ringing of a

distant car, a vague echo, a slight noise…

In the moments of mysterious silence,

when the forgotten emerge from their prison,

in the hour of the dead, in the hour of rest,

you will know how to read these verses of bitterness impregnated!…

As in a glass I pour into them my pains

from distant memories and dire misfortunes,

and the sad nostalgia of my soul, drunk with flowers,

and the mourning of my heart, sad for holidays.

And the regret of not being what I would have been,

and the loss of the kingdom that was there for me,

the thought that for an instant I could not have been born,

and the dream that has been my life since I was born!

All this comes in the midst of the deep silence

in which the night surrounds the earthly illusion,

and I feel like an echo of the heart of the world

that penetrates and moves my own heart.

Author: Rubén Darío.

How was it

What was he like, my God, how was he?

JUAN R. JIMÉNEZ

The door, frank.

Wine remains and smooth.

Neither matter nor spirit. It brought

a slight ship tilt

and a clear morning light.

It wasn't rhythm, it wasn't harmony

or color. The heart knows it,

but to say how it was could

not because it is not form, nor in the form it fits.

Tongue, deadly mud, inept chisel,

leave the flower of concept intact

on this clear night of my wedding, and sings meekly, humbly,

the sensation, the shadow, the accident,

while she fills my whole soul.

Author: Dámaso Alonso.

Little song

Others will want mausoleums

where the trophies hang, where no one has to cry, and I don't want them, no

(I say it in a song)

because I

I would like to die in the wind, like seafarers

at sea.

They could bury me

in the wide trench of the wind.

Oh how sweet to rest

go buried in the wind

like a captain of the wind

like a captain of the sea,

dead in the middle of the sea.

Author: Dámaso Alonso.

A bully

A spatula and gregüesque courageous man

who sacrifices a thousand lives to death,

tired of the craft of the pike,

but not of the picaresque exercise, twisting the soldierly mustache,

to see that his bag was already ringing,

a group of rich people arrived,

and in the name of God he asked for refreshment.

"Give voacedes, by God, to my poverty,

" he tells them; where no; for eight saints

that I will do what I do ground without delay! »

But one, to draw the sword begins,

«Who is he talking to? he says to the songstress,

"God's body with him and his upbringing!"

If alms are not enough,

what do you usually do in such a dispute? "

The bravonel replied: 'Go without her! «

Author: Francisco de Quevedo.

Castile

You lift me up, land of Castile,

in the rough palm of your hand,

to the sky that lights and refreshes you,

to the sky, your master, Sinewy earth, lean, clear,

mother of hearts and arms,

take the present in you old colors

of the noble yesteryear.

With the concave meadow of heaven

your bare fields surround your bare fields,

the sun has a cradle in you

and a tomb and a sanctuary in you.

Your round extension is all summit

and in you I feel the sky lifted, the

air of the summit is what is breathed

here, in your moors.

Giant Ara, Castilian land,

to that your air I will release my songs,

if they are worthy of you they will descend to the world

from on high!

Author: Miguel de Unamuno.

Shame

If you look at me, I become beautiful

like the grass to which the dew fell,

and

the tall reeds will ignore my glorious face when I go down to the river.

I am ashamed of my sad mouth,

my broken voice and my rough knees.

Now that you looked at me and that you came,

I found myself poor and felt naked.

No stone on the road did you find

more naked of light in the dawn

than this woman you raised,

because you heard her song, the look.

I will be silent so that

those who pass by the plain do not know my happiness,

in the glare that gives my rough forehead

and in the tremolation that is in my hand…

It is night and the dew falls on the grass;

look at me long and speak tenderly,

that tomorrow when you descend to the river

the one you kissed will carry beauty!

Author: Gabriela Mistral.

Reed in flower

The reed beds

that I contemplated one day were seas

(my fancy boat

sailed on those seas).

The reed is not garland

like the seas, with foam;

its flowers are rather feathers

on emerald swords…

The winds - perverse children -

come down from the mountains,

and they can be heard among the reeds

as if defoliating verses…

While the man is unfaithful,

the cane is so good,

because having daggers,

they allow themselves to steal the honey…

And how sad the grinding,

even though

the crowd flies through the hacienda of joy,

because

the sugar mills and reeds destroy entrails…

They pour tears of honey!

Author: Alfredo Espino.

Fire tree

The blushes

of your flowers are so vivid, rare friend,

that I say to your flowers:

"Hearts made flowers."

And sometimes I come to think:

If this tree made lips…

ah, how much kiss were born

from so many lips of fire…!

Friend: what beautiful costumes

the Lord has given you;

he preferred you with his love

wearing clouds…

Heaven is good with you,

tree of my earth…

With my soul I bless you,

because you give me your poetry…

Under a garden of clouds,

when you

saw you I was believing that the sun was already sinking

inside your branches.

Author: Alfredo Espino.

The beauty

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….

Author: Herman Hesse.

Girl

Name the tree, girl.

And the tree grows, slow and full,

drowning the air,

dazzling green,

until our gaze turns green.

You name the sky, girl.

And the blue sky, the white cloud,

the morning light,

get into the chest

until it becomes heaven and transparency.

Name the water, girl.

And the water gushes forth, I don't know where,

bathes the black earth,

the flower

turns green, shines on the leaves and turns us into humid vapors.

You don't say anything, girl.

And life is born out of silence

in a wave

of yellow music;

Its golden tide

lifts us to fullness, it

becomes us again, lost.

Baby Girl lifting me and resurrects!

Wave without end, without limits, eternal!

Author: Octavio Paz.

Through eternity

Beauty discovers Her exquisite form

In the solitude of nowhere;

place a mirror before His Face

and contemplate His own beauty.

He is the knower and the known,

the observer and the observed;

no eye except Yours

has observed this Universe.

Each quality of His finds an expression:

Eternity becomes the green field of Time and Space;

Love, the garden that gives life, the garden of this world.

Every branch, leaf and fruit

reveals an aspect of its perfection:

the cypress trees hint at His majesty,

the roses give news of His beauty.

Whenever Beauty looks,

Love is also there;

Whenever beauty shows a rosy cheek,

Love kindles its fire with that flame.

When beauty dwells in the dark valleys of the night , Love comes and finds a heart

tangled in hair.

Beauty and Love are body and soul.

Beauty is the mine, Love, the diamond.

Together they have been

since the beginning of time,

side by side, step by step.

Leave your worries

and have a completely clean heart,

like the surface of a mirror

that does not contain images.

If you want a clear mirror,

contemplate yourself

and see the truth without shame,

reflected by the mirror.

If metal can be polished

to a mirror,

what polish might

the mirror of the heart need?

Between the mirror and the heart

this is the only difference:

the heart hides secrets,

but the mirror does not.

Author: Yalal Al-Din Rumi.

Song 1

If in the desert region, uninhabitable

due to the boiling of the sun too much

and dryness of that burning sand,

or to the one that

is intractable due to the frozen ice and rigorous snow,

completely uninhabited by the people,

by some accident

or case of ruined fortune

I You were taken away,

and I knew that there your hardness

was in its cruelty,

there I would go to look for you as lost,

until I died at your feet lying

Your arrogance and elusive condition

ends now, because

the force of whom has d'escutarse is so finished;

Take a good look at how love is displeased with

desolation, because it wants the lover to live

and become a lover to think of saving himself.

Time has to pass,

and of my ills regret,

confusion and torment

I know that it will remain for you, and this I am suspicious,

that although I mourn myself,

as in me your evils are from another art,

suffer me in more sensitive and tender part.

So I spend my life increasing the

matter of pain to my senses,

as if what I have was not enough,

which for everything are lost

but to show me which one I am walking.

Please God that this would take advantage of

me so that I would think for

a while about my remedy, because I

always see you with a desire

to chase the sad and fallen:

I am lying here,

showing you the signs of my death,

and you living only from my ills.

If that yellowness and the sighs

left without a license from its owner,

if that deep silence have not been able to move

a great or small feeling

in you that is enough to convert you

to even knowing that I am born, it is

enough to have suffered

so long, despite what That is enough,

that I contrast myself, making

me understand that my weakness

has me in the narrowness

in which I am placed, and not what I understand:

so with weakness I defend myself.

Song, you must not have with

me since to see in bad or in good;

Treat me as a stranger,

that you will not lack from whom you learn it.

If you are afraid that you will offend me,

you do not want to do more for my right

than I did, what harm I have done to myself.

Author: Garcilaso de Vega.

To dry elm

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 hearth, tomorrow, you

burn in 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.

Author: Antonio Machado.

Love love

It walks free in the furrow, flaps its wing in the wind,

beats alive in the sun and catches fire in the pine forest.

It is not worth forgetting it as a bad thought:

you will have to listen to it!

He speaks the tongue of bronze and speaks the tongue of a bird,

timid prayers, imperatives of the sea.

It is not worth giving it a bold gesture, a serious frown:

you will have to host it!

Spend owner traces; they don't make excuses for him.

Ripping flower vases, cleaves the deep glacier.

It is not worth telling him that you refuse to host it:

you will have to host it!

It has subtle tricks in the fine reply,

arguments of a sage, but in a woman's voice.

Human science saves you, less divine science:

you will have to believe him!

He puts a linen bandage on you; you tolerate it.

He offers you his warm arm, you don't know how to run away.

Start walking, you are still enchanted even if you saw

that it stops dying!

Author: Gabriela Mistral

You were instant, so clear

You were, instantly, so clear.

Losingly you walk away,

leaving desire erect

with its vague stubborn cravings.

I feel the

pale waters fleeing under the autumn without strength,

while the trees

of the deserting leaves are forgotten.

The flame twists its boredom,

only its living presence,

and the lamp already sleeps

on my awake eyes.

How far everything. Dead

the roses that opened yesterday,

although it encourages its secret

through the green avenues.

Under storms the beach

will be sandy solitude

where love lies in dreams.

The land and the sea await you.

Author: Luis Cernuda

To an orange tree and a lemon tree

Potted orange tree, how sad is your luck!

Your shrunken leaves shiver with fear.

Orange tree in court, what a shame to see you

with your dried and wrinkled oranges!

Poor lemon tree with yellow fruit like a

pommel polished with pale wax,

what a shame to look at you, miserable little tree

raised in a paltry wooden barrel!

From the clear forests of Andalusia,

who brought you to this Castilian land

swept away by the winds of the harsh sierra,

children of the fields of my land?

Glory of the orchards, lemon tree,

that you light the fruits of pale gold,

and you light

the quiet prayers raised in chorus from the austere black cypress;

and fresh orange tree from the dear patio,

from the smiling field and the dreamed orchard,

always in my memory ripe or flowery

with fronds and aromas and loaded fruits!

Author: Antonio Machado.

Ophelia

Cloudy with shadow, the water of the backwater

reflected our tremulous images,

ecstatic of love, under the twilight,

in the sick emerald of the landscape…

It was the fragile forgetfulness of the flowers

in the blue silence of the afternoon,

a parade of restless swallows

on pale autumn skies…

In a very long and very deep kiss

we drank the tears of the air,

and our lives were like a dream

and the minutes like eternities…

When waking up from ecstasy, there was

a funerary peace in the landscape,

rales of fever in our hands

and in our mouths a taste of blood…

And in the cloudy haven of sadness

floated the sweetness of the afternoon,

tangled and bleeding among the reeds,

with the immobile unconsciousness of a corpse.

Author: Francisco Villaespesa.

Drowned

His nakedness and the sea!

They are, full, the same

with the same.

The water had waited for her for

centuries,

to put her body

alone on its immense throne.

And it has been here in Iberia.

The soft Celtic beach

gave it, like playing,

to the wave of summer.

(This is how the smile goes , love! To joy)

Know it, sailors:

Venus is queen again!

Author: Juan Ramón Jiménez.

The beautiful day

And in everything naked you.

I have seen the pink aurora

and the blue morning,

I have seen the green afternoon

and I have seen the blue night.

And in everything naked you.

Naked in the blue night,

naked in the green afternoon

and blue morning,

naked in the pink aurora.

And in everything naked you.

Author: Juan Ramón Jiménez.

For her

Leave her, cousin! Let

the aunt sigh: she also has her sorrow,

and she laughs sometimes, even, look,

you haven't laughed for a long time!

Suddenly

your happy and healthy laugh sounds

in the peace of the silent house

and it is as if a window were opened

to let the sun enter.

Your contagious

joy from before! The one from then, the one

from when you were communicative

like a good sister who returns

after a long journey.

The expansive

joy of before! It is felt

only from time to time, in the serene

forgetting of things

Ah, the absent one!

Everything good went away with her.

You said it, cousin, you said it.

For her are these bad silences,

for her everyone walks like this, sad,

with equal sorrow, without

noisy intervals. The patio without rumors,

we without knowing what is happening to us

and his very brief letters and without flowers

. What will have been made of laughter, at home?

Author: Evaristo Carriego.

Travel note

And the senile omnibus, with its curtain

full of goo, with the old age

of its skinny solipeds, walks

as if it were, walks

like someone who plays chess.

Outside the walls, carrying the sediment

of the villages, he returns to the city

sweaty, ventruded, sleepy

with the unconsciousness of his age.

There is a comatose silence

that makes the cold worse,

that makes me indulgent with the

polar bear … (I don't laugh

at you anymore, Rubén Darío…)

And along the lonely

road, some cattle

appear and flee before the vocabulary

of the coachman…

Later,

while the wagon continues, rare

vegetation and wading birds… to

draw a Japanese screen.

Author: Luis Carlos López.

References

1. Poem and its elements: stanza, verse, rhyme. Recovered from portaleducativo.net.
2. Poem. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org.
3. Farewell. Recovered from poesi.as.
4. Love poems by Mario Benedetti. Recovered from denorfipc.com.
5. Poems by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer. Recovered from ciudadseva.com.
6. Poems by Federico García Lorca. Recovered from poems-del-alma.com.
7. Poems by Alfonsina Storni. Recovered from los-poetas.com.