Author: Antonio Machado

Hills of silver plate, Grey heights, dark red rocks Through which the Duero bends Its crossbow arc Round Soria, shadowed […]

Palacio, good friend, Is spring there Showing itself on branches of black poplars By the roads and river? On the […]

Who set, between those rocks like cinder, To show the honey of dream, That golden broom, Those blue rosemaries? Who […]

The wind, one brilliant day, called To my soul with an odor of jasmine. “In return for the odor of […]

Guadarrama, is it you, old friend, Mountains white and gray That I used to see painted against the blue Those […]

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams Stopped working, the waterwheel Of the mind run […]