The 20 Best Poems By Antonio Machado (and Their Meaning)

Antonio Machado He was a Sevillian poet born in 1875 who left a great legacy within Spanish Modernism. He was part of the so-called Generation of ’98, and was chosen as a member of the Royal Spanish Academy.

Among his published books, some stand out such as “Soledades” (1907), “Campos de Castilla” (1912) and “La Guerra” (1937). In this article we propose the 20 best poems by Antonio Machado (and their meaning).

The 20 best poems by Antonio Machado (and their meaning)

So that, We show you some of Machado’s most outstanding poems and we briefly explain its meaning or interpretation.

1. To a dry elm

To the old elm, split by lightning

and in its half rotten,

with the rains of April and the sun of May

some green leaves have grown.

The ancient elm on the hill

that the Duero licks! A yellowish moss

stains the whitish bark

to the worm-eaten and dusty trunk.

It will not be, like the singing poplars

who guard the path and the shore,

inhabited by brown nightingales.

Army of ants in a row

It climbs up through it, and in its bowels

the spiders weave their gray webs.

Before I knock you down, Duero elm,

the woodcutter with his ax, and the carpenter

I turn you into bell hair,

cart spear or cart yoke;

before red in the home, tomorrow,

you burn in some miserable hut,

on the edge of a road;

before a whirlwind knocks you out

and burst the breath of the white mountains;

before the river pushes you to the sea

through valleys and ravines,

elm, I want to write down in my wallet

the grace of your green branch.

my heart waits

also, towards light and towards life,

another spring miracle.

2. Last night when I was sleeping

Last night when I was sleeping

I dreamed, blessed illusion!

that a fountain flowed

inside my heart.

Say: why hidden ditch,

water, you come to me,

spring of new life

where I never drank?

Last night when I was sleeping

I dreamed, blessed illusion!

that a hive had

inside my heart;

and the golden bees

they were manufacturing in it,

with old bitterness,

white wax and sweet honey.

Last night when I was sleeping

I dreamed, blessed illusion!

that a hot sun was shining

inside my heart.

It was hot because it gave

heat of red home,

and it was sun because it shone

and because it made me cry.

Last night when I was sleeping

I dreamed, blessed illusion!

that it was God who had

inside my heart

3. Portrait

My childhood is memories of a patio in Seville

and a clear orchard where the lemon tree matures;

my youth, twenty years in the land of Castile;

my story, some cases that I don’t want to remember.

Neither a Mañara seducer nor a Bradomín have I been

—You already know my clumsy dressing—;

but I received the arrow that Cupid assigned me

and I loved how hospitable they can be.

There are drops of Jacobin blood in my veins,

but my verse springs from a serene spring;

and, more than a normal man who knows his doctrine,

I am, in the good sense of the word, good.

I adore beauty, and in modern aesthetics

I cut down the old roses from Ronsard’s orchard;

But I don’t love the current cosmetics.

nor am I one of those new gay-warbling birds.

I disdain the romances of hollow tenors

and the chorus of crickets that sing to the moon.

I stand to distinguish the voices from the echoes,

and I only hear, among the voices, one.

Am I classic or romantic? I don’t know. leave would like

my verse how the captain leaves his sword:

famous for the virile hand that brandished it,

not by the learned craft of the precious forger.

I talk with the man who always goes with me

—whoever speaks only hopes to speak to God one day—;

my soliloquy is a conversation with this good friend

who taught me the secret of philanthropy.

And in the end, I owe you nothing; You owe me everything I have written.

I go to work, I pay with my money

the suit that covers me and the mansion that I inhabit,

the bread that feeds me and the bed where I lie.

And when the day of the last trip arrives

and the ship that will never return is leaving,

You will find me on board light of luggage,

almost naked, like the children of the sea.

4. Prelude

While the shadow passes of a holy love, today I want

put a sweet psalm on my old lectern.

I will remember the notes of the severe organ

sighing fragrantly from the fife of April.

The autumn grapes will ripen their aroma;

myrrh and frankincense will praise its smell;

The rose bushes will exhale their fresh perfume,

under the shady peace of the warm flowering orchard.

To the low slow chord of music and aroma,

the only old and noble reason for my prayer

will lift its soft dove flight,

and the white word will rise to the altar.

5. The arrow

A popular voice said:

«Who lends me a ladder

to climb the tree

to remove the nails

to Jesus the Nazarene?

Oh, the arrow, the singing

to the Christ of the gypsies

always with blood on their hands

always to be unlocked.

Song of the Andalusian people

that every spring

is asking for stairs

to climb the cross.

Sing of my land

that blooms flowers

to the Jesus of agony

and it is the faith of my elders

Oh, aren’t you my song

I can’t sing, nor do I want to

to this Jesus of the tree

but to him who walked in the sea!

• This is a poem of a religious nature, more specifically, a criticism of the Andalusian religion The poet does not identify with Jesus Christ, representative of God, as an immobile and static symbol, but rather with a Jesus Christ who works and develops actions.

6. I dreamed that you were taking me

I dreamed that you took me

on a white path,

in the middle of the green field,

towards the blue of the mountains,

towards the blue mountains,

a serene morning.

I felt your hand in mine,

your hand as a companion,

your girlish voice in my ear

like a new bell,

like a virgin bell

of a spring dawn.

They were your voice and your hand,

in dreams, so true!…

Live, hope, who knows

what the earth swallows!

• A clearly romantic poem, in which Machado addresses a love The high use of adjectives is appreciated, with emphasis on colors (blue mountains, green field), to give more nuances to the description.

7. Winter sun

It’s noon. A park.

Winter. White paths;

symmetrical mounds

and skeletal branches.

Under the greenhouse,

potted orange trees,

and in its barrel, painted

in green, the palm tree.

A little old man says,

for your old layer:

«The sun, this beauty

of sun!…” The children play.

The water from the fountain

slip, run and dream

licking, almost mute,

the verdant stone.

• Very descriptive poem, in which a park is staged with all its elements ; trees, tones of the landscape, water from the fountain, etc.

8. When is my life…

When is my life,

all clear and light

like a good river

that runs happily

to the sea,

to the sea ignore

that waits

full of sun and song.

And when it springs into me

heart spring

It will be you, my life,

The inspiration

of my new poem.

A song of peace and love

to the rhythm of blood

that runs through the veins.

A song of love and peace.

Just sweet things and words.

While,

meanwhile, keep the golden key

of my verses

among your jewels.

Save it and wait.

• Romantic poem in which poetry itself is enhanced ; Machado talks about keeping the key to his verses among the jewels, giving them an undeniably high value.

9. Tips

This love that wants to be

perhaps it will be soon;

but when will he return

what just happened?

Today is far from yesterday.

Yesterday is Neverland!

Coin that is in hand

maybe you should save:

the coin of the soul

it is lost if it is not given.

• Poem that talks about a love relationship that seems to be about to pass and the desire to immortalize it later She has feelings of frustration and a bit of grief.

10. Spring was passing…

The spring kissing

softly the grove,

and the new green sprang

like a green smoke.

The clouds were passing

about the youth field…

I saw in the leaves trembling

the cool rains of April.

Under that flowering almond tree,

all loaded with flower

-I remembered-, I have cursed

my youth without love.

Today in the middle of life,

I have stopped to meditate…

Youth never lived,

who would dream you again!

• Another poem with a high descriptive content, somewhat following the line of the previous ones We talk about elements of nature; clouds, fresh leaves, flowers, trees, etc.

11. Field

The afternoon is dying

like a humble home that goes out.

There, on the mountains,

some embers remain.

And that broken tree on the white road

makes you cry with pity.

Two branches on the wounded trunk, and one

Withered and black leaf on each branch!

Do you cry?…Among the golden poplars,

Far away, the shadow of love awaits you.

• Poem that reveals love as salvation from states of sadness (“Are you crying?…Among the golden poplars, far away, the shadow of love awaits you”).

12. The clock struck twelve… and it was twelve

The clock struck twelve… and it was twelve

hoe blows on the ground…

– My time! …—I shouted. The silence

He answered me: —Do not be afraid;

you will not see the last drop fall

that trembles in the hourglass.

You will still sleep many hours

on the old shore,

and you will find a pure morning

your boat moored to another bank.

• Poem that talks about the future of the hopeful future.

13. To the deserted square

To the deserted square

leads a maze of alleys.

On one side, the old gloomy wall

of a ruined church;

on the other side, the whitish wall

of an orchard of cypresses and palm trees,

and, in front of me, the house,

and in the house the fence

before the glass that slightly fogs

his placid and smiling figure.

I will move away. I don’t want to

knock on your window… Spring

comes –his white dress

floats in the air of the dead square–;

comes to light the roses

red from your rose bushes… I want to see it…

• Poem in which Machado describes a square that probably belongs to his hometown He describes the square to us as deserted, a little dry. Finally the description takes us to the house where his lover supposedly lives.

14. Love and the saw

I was riding through the bitter mountains,

one afternoon, among ashen rock.

The leaden ball of the storm

bouncing from mountain to mountain could be heard.

Suddenly, in the vivid glare of lightning,

he reared up, under a tall pine tree,

at the edge of the rock, his horse.

With hard rein he returned to the road.

And he had seen the cloud torn apart,

and, inside, the sharp crest

of another more tenuous and raised mountain range

-stone lightning seemed-.

And did you see the face of God? He saw that of his beloved.

He shouted: Die in this cold mountain range!

• romantic poem in which a man (gentleman, on his horse) goes looking for his beloved in the mountains.

15. Walker there is no path

Walker, they are your footprints

the road and nothing more;

Walker, there is no path,

the path is made by walking.

By walking the path is made,

and when I look back

you see the path that never

it has to be stepped on again.

Walker there is no path

but wakes in the sea.

• Well-known poem by Machado; talks about the path one carves out in life Life is considered as a blank canvas, and one that one has to weave as one lives, leaving the past behind. It was set to music by Joan Manuel Serrat.

16. Autumn Dawn

a long road

between gray rocks,

and some humble meadow

where black bulls graze. Brambles, weeds, bushes.

The earth is wet

by the dew drops,

and the golden avenue,

towards the bend of the river.

Behind the violet mountains

broken the first dawn:

on his back the shotgun,

among his sharp greyhounds, a hunter walking.

• In this poem there is a contrast between nature and man (hunter) that appears in it.

17. Garden

Far from your garden the afternoon burns

golden incense in glitter flames,

behind the forest of copper and ash.

There are dahlias in your garden.

Damn your garden!… Today it seems to me

the work of a hairdresser,

with that poor dwarf palm tree,

and that picture of cut myrtles…

and the little orange in its barrel… The water

from the stone fountain

He doesn’t stop laughing on the white shell.

• This is another poem by Machado in which colors abound as descriptive elements (copper, ash, orange…) while describing the nature of a garden.

18. The ephemeral tomorrow

The Spain of charanga and tambourine,

closed and sacristy,

devoted to Frascuelo and María,

with a mocking spirit and restless soul,

must have its marble and its day,

his infallible morning and his poet.

In vain yesterday will beget tomorrow

empty and perhaps temporary.

It will be a young owl and tarambana,

a sayón with bolero shapes,

realistic France fashion

a bit like pagan Paris

and in the style of Spain specialist

in the vice at hand.

That inferior Spain that prays and yawns,

old and gambler, straggler and sad;

that inferior Spain that prays and attacks,

when he deigns to use his head,

she will still give birth to boys later

lovers of sacred traditions

and in sacred forms and manners;

apostolic beards will flourish,

and other bald spots on other skulls

They will shine, venerable and catholic.

The vain yesterday will beget a tomorrow

empty and by chance! passenger,

the shadow of a tarambana owl,

of a sayón with bolero shapes;

The empty yesterday will give an empty tomorrow.

Like the nausea of ​​an overstuffed drunk

of bad wine, a red sun crown

the granite peaks of turbid feces;

there is a stomach-churning tomorrow written

in the pragmatic and sweet afternoon.

But another Spain is born,

the Spain of the chisel and the mace,

with that eternal youth that becomes

of the breed’s solid past.

A relentless and redeeming Spain,

Spain at dawn

with an ax in his avenging hand,

Spain of rage and idea.

• Poem that talks about the future of Spain from Machado’s point of view A rather pessimistic future, with a society with little hard work, with few ambitions.

19. Horizon

On a clear and wide afternoon like boredom,

when his spear brandishes the torrid summer,

They copied the ghost of a serious dream of mine

a thousand shadows in theory, standing tall on the plain.

The glory of the sunset was a purple mirror,

It was a crystal of flames, which to the infinite old

I was throwing the grave dream into the plain…

And I felt the sound spur of my step

echo far away in the bloody twilight,

and beyond, the joyful song of a pure dawn.

• The theme of the poem the inevitable passage of time There are moments when pause comes, calm. But in the end everything continues, the course of things does not stop.

20. Bad dreams

There is the shadowy square;

dies the day

The bells ring far away.

Of balconies and windows

the stained glass windows light up,

with dim reflections,

like whitish bones

and blurry skulls.

Shines throughout the afternoon

a nightmare light.

There is the sun in the setting.

The echo of my step sounds.

It’s you? I was waiting for you…

Weren’t you the one I was looking for?

• Very visual poem that talks about a setting and specific moments, placing emphasis on the different tones of light (square, shadowy, stained glass windows illuminated…) It is more of a romantic poem, since at the end it addresses someone in particular and tells them that he was waiting for them, with rhetorical questions.