Gabriela Mistral

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ratacaro: Gabriela Mistral was found dead

irawatiputeri: Then spoke the poor dead thistle, “But I, how shall I dance?” Let your heart fly to the wind We said. Gabriela Mistral - Those Who Do Not Dance

idol_collective: “She talks with an accent of savage seas. Her breathing is the breath of the wilderness, she has loved with a passion that makes her blanch, which she never mentions and which would be like the map of another star if she told us.” - Gabriela Mistral, tr. by Arthur McHugh.

KPahama: Love beauty; it is the shadow of God in the Universe.—Gabriela Mistral

WritingQuotes_: "I write poetry because I can't disobey the impulse; it would be like blocking a spring that surges up in my throat." ~ Gabriela Mistral

Uni_Insights: So inspiring to see strong and accomplished Latinas across so many different industries. Special shout out to writers Gabriela Mistral and Isabel Allende!

MiaMagdalena: "Country that is missing, strange country ...It seems like a fable now that I've learned it dreaming to stay and dreaming to fly. But it is my country where I live and I die." - Gabriela Mistral translated by Langston Hughes

Chileangarden: NEW POST on my blog : El boldo, Gabriela Mistral

AlwaysGoodStuff: Those Who Do Not Dance ~ Gabriela Mistral

MomStuffPodcast: Friend of the show Yves stops by for another rendition of Female Firsts, this time to discuss Gabriela Mistral, the first Latin American to win Nobel Prize in Literature.

ahsikane: The Other by Gabriela Mistral is still one of the most powerful poem I have ever read.

historyintofo: Left to right: Pablo Nerugind (daddy heart) and Gabriela Mistral (pisquera poetizing) representaded in the Las Condes Wax Museum (another shit idea of Lavín). Little country of The Dominicos, 2019.

mrdaviddill: 5 of 5 stars to Selected Poems by Gabriela Mistral

gcfyohan: gabriela mistral? i dont know her

rabihalameddine: Here's a bonus poem: The Stranger by Gabriela Mistral

idolzta0: me reading my own writing: wow, you're the new gabriela mistral !!

h3l33nboS: Many things can wait. The child can not. Now is the time. His blood is being formed. His bones are being made. His mind is being developed. To him, we cannot say tomorrow. His name is today. ~Gabriela Mistral

Dazzle_Deals: Poemas de las Madres / The Mothers' Poems (Spanish and English Edition) [paperback] Mistral, Gabriela,Mistral, Gabriela,Kyle, Christiane J.

JohnnyBar101: Poemas de las Madres / The Mothers' Poems (Spanish and English Edition) [paperback] Mistral, Gabriela,Mistral, Gabriela,Kyle, Christiane J.

friel_raymond: The distressing and shameful stories coming out of the detention centres on the US/Mexico border brought to mind this Gabriela Mistral poem - “Mankind owes to children the best it has to give. Their life is fragile. If they are to have a tomorrow their needs must be met today.”

ASlachevsky: A very nice souvenir . In this travel, we visit the house of two of the best chilean’s poet : Neruda and the amazing Gabriela Mistral. thanks for reminding me!!

TheMGFoundation: My grief and my smile begin in your face, my son. ~ Gabriela Mistral

RonMFHare: The classical music playing from the speakers around this little plaza is beautiful. Gabriela Mistral Square

maisunii: when beside the thorn tree we stood wordless, and love, like a thorn, pierced us with fragrance. Gabriela Mistral, from God Wills It (tr. by Doris Dana).

fadybeyhum: "Beauty is the shadow of God on the universe." ~ Gabriela Mistral,Desolacon

savrah_: The Sad Mother by Gabriela Mistral

BooksDelSur: Do you know Frida Kahlo?Violeta Parra?Pablo Neruda?Gabriela Mistral? They are some of the amazing people from LatinAmerica that have written our books and/or have books written about them. Learn more about our books, people of LatinAmerica and culture here

heatherbook: BooksDelSur

zais_: I found Gabriela Mistral (

DrLauraMarkham: "Many things can wait. The child cannot. To him, we cannot say tomorrow. His name is today." - Chilean poet Gabriela Mistral

Poem of the day

Christina Rossetti Poem
In Progress
 by Christina Rossetti

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.

Read complete poem

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