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Here are some poems by Gabriela Mistral. Source of translation is not known for some poems. Poetry Foundation. A hundred and sixty-three of Mistral’s poems, in Spanish and English. Translated by Ursula K. Le Guin. Poetry Verse. UC Berkeley. Gabriela Mistral reading her poetry, at the Library of Congress, Dec. 12, 1950
1 day ago · Some of Mistral's best known poems include Piececitos de Niño, Balada, Todas Íbamos a ser Reinas, La Oración de la Maestra, El Ángel Guardián, Decálogo del Artista and La Flor del Aire. She wrote and published some 800 essays in magazines and newspapers; she was also a well-known correspondent and highly regarded orator both in person and ...
Give me your hand and give me your love, give me your hand and dance with me. A single flower, and nothing more, a single flower is all we'll be. Keeping time in the dance together, singing the tune together with me, grass in the wind, and nothing more, grass in the wind is all we'll be. I'm called Hope and you're called Rose:
Mar 26, 2024 · Lucila Godoy Alcayaga (Latin American Spanish: [luˈsila ɣoˈðoj alkaˈʝaɣa]; 7 April 1889 – 10 January 1957), known by her pseudonym Gabriela Mistral (Spanish: [ɡaˈβɾjela misˈtɾal]), was a Chilean poet-diplomat, educator, and Catholic. She was a member of the Secular Franciscan Order or Third Franciscan order.
Gabriela Mistral(7 April 1889 – 10 January 1957) Gabriela Mistral was the pseudonym of Lucila Godoy Alcayaga, a Chilean poet, educator, diplomat, and feminist who was the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, in 1945. Some central themes in her poems are nature,
While some claim the name honors Fédérico Mistral, the poet from Provençe, others assert that the name is taken from the French wind called the mistral. A clue may lie in one of Gabriela Mistral's own poems, "La Granjera" (The Woman Granger), where she writes of the "Wind and Archangel whose name she bears."
and I’m caught in the wheel. The riverside people tell me. of the drowned woman sunk in grasses. and her gaze tells her story, and I graft the tales into my open hands. To the thumb come stories of animals, to the index fingers, stories of my dead. There are so many tales of children. they swarm on my palms like ants.
