Collected Poetical Works of Kahlil Gibran Read online

  The first word of God was a man.

  We were fluttering, wandering, longing creatures a thousand thousand years before the sea and the wind in the forest gave us words.

  Now how can we express the ancient of days in us with only the sounds of our yesterdays?

  The Sphinx spoke only once, and the Sphinx said, “A grain of sand is a desert, and a desert is a grain of sand; and now let us all be silent again.”

  I heard the Sphinx, but I did not understand.

  Long did I lie in the dust of Egypt, silent and unaware of the seasons.

  Then the sun gave me birth, and I rose and walked upon the banks of the Nile,

  Singing with the days and dreaming with the nights.

  And now the sun threads upon me with a thousand feet that I may lie again in the dust of Egypt.

  But behold a marvel and a riddle!

  The very sun that gathered me cannot scatter me.

  Still erect am I, and sure of foot do I walk upon the banks of the Nile.

  Remembrance is a form of meeting.

  Forgetfulness is a form of freedom.

  We measure time according to the movement of countless suns; and they measure time by little machines in their little pockets.

  Now tell me, how could we ever meet at the same place and the same time?

  Space is not space between the earth and the sun to one who looks down from the windows of the Milky Way.

  Humanity is a river of light running from the ex-eternity to eternity.

  Do not the spirits who dwell in the ether envy man his pain?

  On my way to the Holy City I met another pilgrim and I asked him, “Is this indeed the way to the Holy City?”

  And he said, “Follow me, and you will reach the Holy City in a day and a night.”

  And I followed him. And we walked many days and many nights, yet we did not reach the Holy City.

  And what was to my surprise he became angry with me because he had misled me.

  Make me, oh God, the prey of the lion, ere You make the rabbit my prey.

  One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.

  My house says to me, “Do not leave me, for here dwells your past.”

  And the road says to me, “Come and follow me, for I am your future.”

  And I say to both my house and the road, “I have no past, nor have I a future. If I stay here, there is a going in my staying; and if I go there is a staying in my going. Only love and death will change all things.”

  How can I lose faith in the justice of life, when the dreams of those who sleep upon feathers are not more beautiful than the dreams of those who sleep upon the earth?

  Strange, the desire for certain pleasures is a part of my pain.

  Seven times have I despised my soul:

  The first time when I saw her being meek that she might attain height.

  The second time when I saw her limping before the crippled.

  The third time when she was given to choose between the hard and the easy, and she chose the easy.

  The fourth time when she committed a wrong, and comforted herself that others also commit wrong.

  The fifth time when she forbore for weakness, and attributed her patience to strength.

  The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own masks.

  And the seventh time when she sang a song of praise, and deemed it a virtue. I AM IGNORANT of absolute truth. But I am humble before my ignorance and therein lies my honor and my reward.

  There is a space between man’s imagination and man’s attainment that may only be traversed by his longing.

  Paradise is there, behind that door, in the next room; but I have lost the key.

  Perhaps I have only mislaid it.

  You are blind and I am deaf and dumb, so let us touch hands and understand.

  The significance of man is not in what he attains, but rather in what he longs to attain.

  Some of us are like ink and some like paper.

  And if it were not for the blackness of some of us, some of us would be dumb;

  And if it were not for the whiteness of some of us, some of us would be blind.

  Give me an ear and I will give you a voice.

  Our mind is a sponge; our heart is a stream.

  Is it not strange that most of us choose sucking rather than running?

  When you long for blessings that you may not name, and when you grieve knowing not the cause, then indeed you are growing with all things that grow, and rising toward your greater self.

  When one is drunk with a vision, he deems his faint expression of it the very wine.

  You drink wine that you may be intoxicated; and I drink that it may sober me from that other wine.

  When my cup is empty I resign myself to its emptiness; but when it is half full I resent its half-fulness.

  The reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you.

  Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say.

  Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.

  A sense of humour is a sense of proportion.

  My loneliness was born when men praised my talkative faults and blamed my silent virtues.

  When Life does not find a singer to sing her heart she produces a philosopher to speak her mind.

  A truth is to be known always, to be uttered sometimes.

  The real in us is silent; the acquired is talkative.

  The voice of life in me cannot reach the ear of life in you; but let us talk that we may not feel lonely.

  When two women talk they say nothing; when one woman speaks she reveals all of life.

  Frogs may bellow louder than bulls, but they cannot drag the plough in the field not turn the wheel of the winepress, and of their skins you cannot make shoes.

  Only the dumb envy the talkative.

  If winter should say, “Spring is in my heart,” who would believe winter?

  Every seed is a longing.

  Should you really open your eyes and see, you would behold your image in all images.

  And should you open your ears and listen, you would hear your own voice in all voices.

  It takes two of us to discover truth: one to utter it and one to understand it.

  Though the wave of words is forever upon us, yet our depth is forever silent.

  Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth.

  Now let us play hide and seek. Should you hide in my heart it would not be difficult to find you. But should you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless for anyone to seek you.

  A woman may veil her face with a smile.

  How noble is the sad heart who would sing a joyous song with joyous hearts.

  He who would understand a woman, or dissect genius, or solve the mystery of silence is the very man who would wake from a beautiful dream to sit at a breakfast table.

  I would walk with all those who walk. I would not stand still to watch the procession passing by.

  You owe more than gold to him who serves you. Give him of your heart or serve him.

  Nay, we have not lived in vain. Have they not built towers of our bones?

  Let us not be particular and sectional. The poet’s mind and the scorpion’s tail rise in glory from the same earth.

  Every dragon gives birth to a St. George who slays it.

  Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness.

  Should you care to write (and only the saints know why you should) you must needs have knowledge and art and music — the knowledge of the music of words, the art of being artless, and the magic of loving your readers.

  They dip their pens in our hearts and think they are inspired.

  Should a tree write its autobiography it would
not be unlike the history of a race.

  If I were to choose between the power of writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten, I would choose the ecstasy. It is better poetry.

  But you and all my neighbors agree that I always choose badly.

  Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth.

  Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness. A POET IS a dethroned king sitting among the ashes of his palace trying to fashion an image out of the ashes.

  Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.

  In vain shall a poet seek the mother of the songs of his heart.

  Once I said to a poet, “We shall not know your worth until you die.”

  And he answered saying, “Yes, death is always the revealer. And if indeed you would know my worth it is that I have more in my heart than upon my tongue, and more in my desire than in my hand.”

  If you sing of beauty though alone in the heart of the desert you will have an audience.

  Poetry is wisdom that enchants the heart.

  Wisdom is poetry that sings in the mind.

  If we could enchant man’s heart and at the same time sing in his mind,

  Then in truth he would live in the shadow of God.

  Inspiration will always sing; inspiration will never explain.

  We often sing lullabies to our children that we ourselves may sleep.

  All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.

  Thinking is always the stumbling stone to poetry.

  A great singer is he who sings our silences.

  How can you sing if your mouth be filled with food?

  How shall your hand be raised in blessing if it is filled with gold?

  They say the nightingale pierces his bosom with a thorn when he sings his love song.

  So do we all. How else should we sing?

  Genius is but a robin’s song at the beginning of a slow spring.

  Even the most winged spirit cannot escape physical necessity.

  A madman is not less a musician than you or myself; only the instrument on which he plays is a little out of tune.

  The song that lies silent in the heart of a mother sings upon the lips of her child.

  No longing remains unfulfilled.

  I have never agreed with my other self wholly. The truth of the matter seems to lie between us.

  Your other self is always sorry for you. But your other self grows on sorrow; so all is well.

  There is no struggle of soul and body save in the minds of those whose souls are asleep and whose bodies are out of tune.

  When you reach the heart of life you shall find beauty in all things, even in the eyes that are blind to beauty.

  We live only to discover beauty. All else is a form of waiting.

  Sow a seed and the earth will yield you a flower. Dream your dream to the sky and it will bring you your beloved.

  The devil died the very day you were born.

  Now you do not have to go through hell to meet an angel.

  Many a woman borrows a man’s heart; very few could possess it.

  If you would possess you must not claim.

  When a man’s hand touches the hand of a woman they both touch the heart of eternity.

  Love is the veil between lover and lover.

  Every man loves two women; the one is the creation of his imagination, and the other is not yet born.

  Men who do not forgive women their little faults will never enjoy their great virtues.

  Love that does not renew itself every day becomes a habit and in turn a slavery.

  Lovers embrace that which is between them rather than each other.

  Love and doubt have never been on speaking terms.

  Love is a word of light, written by a hand of light, upon a page of light.

  Friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.

  If you do not understand your friend under all conditions you will never understand him.

  Your most radiant garment is of the other person’s weaving;

  You most savory meal is that which you eat at the other person’s table;

  Your most comfortable bed is in the other person’s house.

  Now tell me, how can you separate yourself from the other person?

  Your mind and my heart will never agree until your mind ceases to live in numbers and my heart in the mist.

  We shall never understand one another until we reduce the language to seven words. HOW SHALL MY heart be unsealed unless it be broken?

  Only great sorrow or great joy can reveal your truth.

  If you would be revealed you must either dance naked in the sun, or carry your cross.

  Should nature heed what we say of contentment no river would seek the sea, and no winter would turn to Spring. Should she heed all we say of thrift, how many of us would be breathing this air?

  You see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.

  You are free before the sun of the day, and free before the stars of the night;

  And you are free when there is no sun and no moon and no star.

  You are even free when you close your eyes upon all there is.

  But you are a slave to him whom you love because you love him,

  And a slave to him who loves you because he loves you.

  We are all beggars at the gate of the temple, and each one of us receives his share of the bounty of the King when he enters the temple, and when he goes out.

  But we are all jealous of one another, which is another way of belittling the King.

  You cannot consume beyond your appetite. The other half of the loaf belongs to the other person, and there should remain a little bread for the chance guest.

  If it were not for your guests all houses would be graves.

  Said a gracious wolf to a simple sheep, “Will you not honor our house with a visit?”

  And the sheep answered, “We would have been honored to visit your house if it were not in your stomach.”

  I stopped my guest on the threshold and said, “Nay, wipe not your feet as you enter, but as you go out.”

  Generosity is not in giving me that which I need more than you do, but it is in giving me that which you need more than I do.

  You are indeed charitable when you give, and while giving, turn your face away so that you may not see the shyness of the receiver.

  The difference between the richest man and the poorest is but a day of hunger and an hour of thirst.

  We often borrow from our tomorrows to pay our debts to our yesterdays.

  I too am visited by angels and devils, but I get rid of them.

  When it is an angel I pray an old prayer, and he is bored;

  When it is a devil I commit an old sin, and he passes me by.

  After all this is not a bad prison; but I do not like this wall between my cell and the next prisoner’s cell;

  Yet I assure you that I do not wish to reproach the warder not the Builder of the prison.

  Those who give you a serpent when you ask for a fish, may have nothing but serpents to give. It is then generosity on their part.

  Trickery succeeds sometimes, but it always commits suicide.

  You are truly a forgiver when you forgive murderers who never spill blood, thieves who never steal, and liars who utter no falsehood.

  He who can put his finger upon that which divides good from evil is he who can touch the very hem of the garment of God.

  If your heart is a volcano how shall you expect flowers to bloom in your hands?

  A strange form of self-indulgence! There are times when I would be wronged and cheated, that I may laugh at the expense of those who think I do not know I am being wronged and cheated.

  What shall I say of him who is the pursuer playing the part of the pursued?

  Let him who wipes his soiled hands with your garment take your g
arment. He may need it again; surely you would not.

  It is a pity that money-changers cannot be good gardeners.

  Please do not whitewash your inherent faults with your acquired virtues. I would have the faults; they are like mine own.

  How often have I attributed to myself crimes I have never committed, so that the other person may feel comfortable in my presence.

  Even the masks of life are masks of deeper mystery.

  You may judge others only according to your knowledge of yourself.

  Tell me now, who among us is guilty and who is unguilty?

  The truly just is he who feels half guilty of your misdeeds.

  Only an idiot and a genius break man-made laws; and they are the nearest to the heart of God.

  It is only when you are pursued that you become swift.

  I have no enemies, O God, but if I am to have an enemy

  Let his strength be equal to mine,

  That truth alone may be the victor.

  You will be quite friendly with your enemy when you both die.

  Perhaps a man may commit suicide in self-defense.

  Long ago there lived a Man who was crucified for being too loving and too lovable.

  And strange to relate I met him thrice yesterday.

  The first time He was asking a policeman not to take a prostitute to prison; the second time He was drinking wine with an outcast; and the third time He was having a fist-fight with a promoter inside a church.

  If all they say of good and evil were true, then my life is but one long crime.

  Pity is but half justice. THE ONLY ONE who has been unjust to me is the one to whose brother I have been unjust.

  When you see a man led to prison say in your heart, “Mayhap he is escaping from a narrower prison.”

  And when you see a man drunken say in your heart, “Mayhap he sought escape from something still more unbeautiful.”

  Oftentimes I have hated in self-defense; but if I were stronger I would not have used such a weapon.

  How stupid is he who would patch the hatred in his eyes with the smile of his lips.

  Only those beneath me can envy or hate me.

  I have never been envied nor hated; I am above no one.

  Only those above me can praise or belittle me.

  I have never been praised nor belittled; I am below no one.

  Your saying to me, “I do not understand you,” is praise beyond my worth, and an insult you do not deserve.