Poem from a bus-stop wall.

I moved to Greenwood a few months ago. Now, school is about 3 miles away from home. I am trying to separate my academic life from the rest of me, so there can be a rest of me.
I take bus #48 to school, I try to come only as many times as is necessary - for classes, meetings and library books. If I get the chance, I like to sit on the seats that are higher (I think those are located just above the wheels of the bus) so I can look out the window at Greenlake and smile about how alive beautiful things are and how beautiful are alive things.
I read a part of this poem painted on the side of a bus stop and looked it up - and made me wish I could write so well. Lately, I have noticed how sterilized my writing has become - like they come out of a bottle of Dettol - squeaky clean and minty fresh.

So, the poem is a translation from Spanish, written by Pablo Neruda. Perhaps it is well known in the literary world - and I am simply an ignorant outsider.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I do not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

[I copied the lines from a website, and took the liberty to change a grammatical error in the last paragraph]