Collected Poetical Works of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  “I am like thee, O, Night, dark and naked; I walk on the flaming path which is above my day-dreams, and whenever my foot touches earth a giant oak tree comes forth.”

  “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still lookest backward to see how large a foot-print thou leavest on the sand.”

  “I am like thee, O, Night, silent and deep; and in the heart of my loneliness lies a Goddess in child-bed; and in him who is being born Heaven touches Hell.”

  “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou shudderest yet before pain, and the song of the abyss terrifies thee.”

  “I am like thee, O, Night, wild and terrible; for my ears are crowded with cries of conquered nations and sighs for forgotten lands.”

  “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still takest thy little-self for a comrade, and with thy monster-self thou canst not be friend.”

  “I am like thee, O, Night, cruel and awful; for my bosom is lit by burning ships at sea, and my lips are wet with blood of slain warriors.”

  “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman; for the desire for a sister-spirit is yet upon thee, and thou has not become alone unto thyself.”

  “I am like thee, O, Night, joyous and glad; for he who dwells in my shadow is now drunk with virgin wine, and she who follows me is sinning mirthfully.”

  “Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thy soul is wrapped in the veil of seven folds and thou holdest not thy heart in thine hand.”

  “I am like thee, O, Night, patient and passionate; for in my breast a thousand dead lovers are buried in shrouds of withered kisses.”

  “Yea, Madman, art thou like me? Art thou like me? And canst thou ride the tempest as a steed, and grasp the lightning as a sword?”

  “Like thee, O, Night, like thee, mighty and high, and my throne is built upon heaps of fallen Gods; and before me too pass the days to kiss the hem of my garment but never to gaze at my face.”

  “Art thou like me, child of my darkest heart? And dost thou think my untamed thoughts and speak my vast language?”

  “Yea, we are twin brothers, O, Night; for thou revealest space and I reveal my soul.”

  Faces

  I have seen a face with a thousand countenances, and a face that was but a single countenance as if held in a mould.

  I have seen a face whose sheen I could look through to the ugliness beneath, and a face whose sheen I had to lift to see how beautiful it was.

  I have seen an old face much lined with nothing, and a smooth face in which all things were graven.

  I know faces, because I look through the fabric my own eye weaves, and behold the reality beneath.

  The Greater Sea

  My soul and I went to the great sea to bathe. And when we reached the shore, we went about looking for a hidden and lonely place.

  But as we walked, we saw a man sitting on a grey rock taking pinches of salt from a bag and throwing them into the sea.

  “This is the pessimist,” said my soul, “Let us leave this place. We cannot bathe here.”

  We walked on until we reached an inlet. There we saw, standing on a white rock, a man holding a bejeweled box, from which he took sugar and threw it into the sea.

  “And this is the optimist,” said my soul, “And he too must not see our naked bodies.”

  Further on we walked. And on a beach we saw a man picking up dead fish and tenderly putting them back into the water.

  “And we cannot bathe before him,” said my soul. “He is the humane philanthropist.”

  And we passed on.

  Then we came where we saw a man tracing his shadow on the sand. Great waves came and erased it. But he went on tracing it again and again.

  “He is the mystic,” said my soul, “Let us leave him.”

  And we walked on, till in a quiet cover we saw a man scooping up the foam and putting it into an alabaster bowl.

  “He is the idealist,” said my soul, “Surely he must not see our nudity.”

  And on we walked. Suddenly we heard a voice crying, “This is the sea. This is the deep sea. This is the vast and mighty sea.” And when we reached the voice it was a man whose back was turned to the sea, and at his ear he held a shell, listening to its murmur.

  And my soul said, “Let us pass on. He is the realist, who turns his back on the whole he cannot grasp, and busies himself with a fragment.”

  So we passed on. And in a weedy place among the rocks was a man with his head buried in the sand. And I said to my soul, “We can bath here, for he cannot see us.”

  “Nay,” said my soul, “For he is the most deadly of them all. He is the puritan.”

  Then a great sadness came over the face of my soul, and into her voice.

  “Let us go hence,” she said, “For there is no lonely, hidden place where we can bathe. I would not have this wind lift my golden hair, or bare my white bosom in this air, or let the light disclose my sacred nakedness.”

  Then we left that sea to seek the Greater Sea.

  Crucified

  I cried to men, “I would be crucified!”

  And they said, “Why should your blood be upon our heads?”

  And I answered, “How else shall you be exalted except by crucifying madmen?”

  And they heeded and I was crucified. And the crucifixion appeased me.

  And when I was hanged between earth and heaven they lifted up their heads to see me. And they were exalted, for their heads had never before been lifted.

  But as they stood looking up at me one called out, “For what art thou seeking to atone?”

  And another cried, “In what cause dost thou sacrifice thyself?”

  And a third said, “Thinkest thou with this price to buy world glory?”

  Then said a fourth, “Behold, how he smiles! Can such pain be forgiven?”

  And I answered them all, and said:

  “Remember only that I smiled. I do not atone — nor sacrifice — nor wish for glory; and I have nothing to forgive. I thirsted — and I besought you to give me my blood to drink. For what is there can quench a madman’s thirst but his own blood? I was dumb — and I asked wounds of you for mouths. I was imprisoned in your days and nights — and I sought a door into larger days and nights.

  And now I go — as others already crucified have gone. And think not we are weary of crucifixion. For we must be crucified by larger and yet larger men, between greater earths and greater heavens.”

  The Astronomer

  In the shadow of the temple my friend and I saw a blind man sitting alone. And my friend said, “Behold the wisest man of our land.”

  Then I left my friend and approached the blind man and greeted him. And we conversed.

  After a while I said, “Forgive my question; but since when has thou been blind?”

  “From my birth,” he answered.

  Said I, “And what path of wisdom followest thou?”

  Said he, “I am an astronomer.”

  Then he placed his hand upon his breast saying, “I watch all these suns and moons and stars.”

  The Great Longing

  Here I sit between my brother the mountain and my sister the sea.

  We three are one in loneliness, and the love that binds us together is deep and strong and strange. Nay, it is deeper than my sister’s depth and stronger than my brother’s strength, and stranger than the strangeness of my madness.

  Aeons upon aeons have passed since the first grey dawn made us visible to one another; and though we have seen the birth and the fullness and the death of many worlds, we are still eager and young.

  We are young and eager and yet we are mateless and unvisited, and though we lie in unbroken half embrace, we are uncomforted. And what comfort is there for controlled desire and unspent passion? Whence shall come the flaming god to warm my sister’s bed? And what she-torrent shall quench my brother’s fire? And who is the woman that shall command my heart?

  In the stillness of the night my sister murmurs in her sleep the fire-god’s unknown
name, and my brother calls afar upon the cool and distant goddess. But upon whom I call in my sleep I know not.

  Here I sit between my brother the mountain and my sister the sea. We three are one in loneliness, and the love that binds us together is deep and strong and strange.

  Said a Blade of Grass

  Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”

  Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.”

  Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again — and she was a blade of grass.

  And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such noise! They scatter all my winter dreams.”

  The Eye

  Said the Eye one day, “I see beyond these valleys a mountain veiled with blue mist. Is it not beautiful?”

  The Ear listened, and after listening intently awhile, said, “But where is any mountain? I do not hear it.”

  Then the Hand spoke and said, “I am trying in vain to feel it or touch it, and I can find no mountain.”

  And the Nose said, “There is no mountain, I cannot smell it.”

  Then the Eye turned the other way, and they all began to talk together about the Eye’s strange delusion. And they said, “Something must be the matter with the Eye.”

  The Two Learned Men

  Once there lived in the ancient city of Afkar two learned men who hated and belittled each other’s learning. For one of them denied the existence of the gods and the other was a believer.

  One day the two met in the marketplace, and amidst their followers they began to dispute and to argue about the existence or the non-existence of the gods. And after hours of contention they parted.

  That evening the unbeliever went to the temple and prostrated himself before the altar and prayed the gods to forgive his wayward past.

  And the same hour the other learned man, he who had upheld the gods, burned his sacred books. For he had become an unbeliever.

  When My Sorrow Was Born

  When my Sorrow was born I nursed it with care, and watched over it with loving tenderness.

  And my Sorrow grew like all living things, strong and beautiful and full of wondrous delights.

  And we loved one another, my Sorrow and I, and we loved the world about us; for Sorrow had a kindly heart and mine was kindly with Sorrow.

  And when we conversed, my Sorrow and I, our days were winged and our nights were girdled with dreams; for Sorrow had an eloquent tongue, and mine was eloquent with Sorrow.

  And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our neighbors sat at their windows and listened; for our songs were deep as the sea and our melodies were full of strange memories.

  And when we walked together, my Sorrow and I, people gazed at us with gentle eyes and whispered in words of exceeding sweetness. And there were those who looked with envy upon us, for Sorrow was a noble thing and I was proud with Sorrow.

  But my Sorrow died, like all living things, and alone I am left to muse and ponder.

  And now when I speak my words fall heavily upon my ears.

  And when I sing my songs my neighbours come not to listen.

  And when I walk the streets no one looks at me.

  Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in pity, “See, there lies the man whose Sorrow is dead.”

  And When my Joy was Born

  And when my Joy was born, I held it in my arms and stood on the house-top shouting, “Come ye, my neighbours, come and see, for Joy this day is born unto me. Come and behold this gladsome thing that laugheth in the sun.”

  But none of my neighbours came to look upon my Joy, and great was my astonishment.

  And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my Joy from the house-top — and yet no one heeded me. And my Joy and I were alone, unsought and unvisited.

  Then my Joy grew pale and weary because no other heart but mine held its loveliness and no other lips kissed its lips.

  Then my Joy died of isolation.

  And now I only remember my dead Joy in remembering my dead Sorrow. But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and then is heard no more.

  The Perfect World

  God of lost souls, thou who are lost amongst the gods, hear me:

  Gentle Destiny that watchest over us, mad, wandering spirits, hear me:

  I dwell in the midst of a perfect race, I the most imperfect.

  I, a human chaos, a nebula of confused elements, I move amongst finished worlds — peoples of complete laws and pure order, whose thoughts are assorted, whose dreams are arranged, and whose visions are enrolled and registered.

  Their virtues, O God, are measured, their sins are weighed, and even the countless things that pass in the dim twilight of neither sin nor virtue are recorded and catalogued.

  Here days and night are divided into seasons of conduct and governed by rules of blameless accuracy.

  To eat, to drink, to sleep, to cover one’s nudity, and then to be weary in due time.

  To work, to play, to sing, to dance, and then to lie still when the clock strikes the hour.

  To think thus, to feel thus much, and then to cease thinking and feeling when a certain star rises above yonder horizon.

  To rob a neighbour with a smile, to bestow gifts with a graceful wave of the hand, to praise prudently, to blame cautiously, to destroy a sound with a word, to burn a body with a breath, and then to wash the hands when the day’s work is done.

  To love according to an established order, to entertain one’s best self in a preconceived manner, to worship the gods becomingly, to intrigue the devils artfully — and then to forget all as though memory were dead.

  To fancy with a motive, to contemplate with consideration, to be happy sweetly, to suffer nobly — and then to empty the cup so that tomorrow may fill it again.

  All these things, O God, are conceived with forethought, born with determination, nursed with exactness, governed by rules, directed by reason, and then slain and buried after a prescribed method. And even their silent graves that lie within the human soul are marked and numbered.

  It is a perfect world, a world of consummate excellence, a world of supreme wonders, the ripest fruit in God’s garden, the master-thought of the universe.

  But why should I be here, O God, I a green seed of unfulfilled passion, a mad tempest that seeketh neither east nor west, a bewildered fragment from a burnt planet?

  Why am I here, O God of lost souls, thou who art lost amongst the gods?

  THE FORERUNNER (1920)

  CONTENTS

  THE FORERUNNER. HIS PARABLES AND POEMS

  GOD’S FOOL

  LOVE

  THE KING-HERMIT

  THE LION’S DAUGHTER

  TYRANNY

  THE SAINT

  THE PLUTOCRAT

  THE GREATER SELF

  WAR AND THE SMALL NATIONS

  CRITICS

  POETS

  THE WEATHER-COCK

  THE KING OF ARADUS

  OUT OF MY DEEPER HEART

  DYNASTIES

  KNOWLEDGE AND HALF-KNOWLEDGE

  SAID A SHEET OF SNOW-WHITE PAPER....

  THE SCHOLAR AND THE POET

  VALUES

  OTHER SEAS

  REPENTANCE

  THE DYING MAN AND THE VULTURE

  BEYOND MY SOLITUDE

  THE LAST WATCH

  THE FORERUNNER. HIS PARABLES AND POEMS

  You are your own forerunner, and the towers you have builded are but the foundation of your giant-self. And that self too shall be a foundation.

  And I too am my own forerunner, for the long shadow stretching before me at sunrise shall gather under my feet at the noon hour. Yet another sunrise shall lay another shadow before me, and that also shall be g
athered at another noon.

  Always have we been our own forerunners, and always shall we be. And all that we have gathered and shall gather shall be but seeds for fields yet unploughed. We are the fields and the ploughmen, the gatherers and the gathered.

  When you were a wandering desire in the mist, I too was there, a wandering desire. Then we sought one another, and out of our eagerness dreams were born. And dreams were time limitless, and dreams were space without measure.

  And when you were a silent word upon Life’s quivering lips, I too was there, another silent word. Then Life uttered us and we came down the years throbbing with memories of yesterday and with longing for tomorrow, for yesterday was death conquered and tomorrow was birth pursued.

  And now we are in God’s hands. You are a sun in His right hand and I an earth in His left hand. Yet you are not more, shining, than I, shone upon.

  And we, sun and earth, are but the beginning of a greater sun and a greater earth. And always shall we be the beginning.

  . . . . . .

  You are your own forerunner, you the stranger passing by the gate of my garden.

  And I too am my own forerunner, though I sit in the shadows of my trees and seem motionless.

  GOD’S FOOL

  ONCE there came from the desert to the great city of Sharia a man who was a dreamer, and he had naught but his garment and a staff.

  And as he walked through the streets he gazed with awe and wonder at the temples and towers and palaces, for the city of Sharia was of surpassing beauty. And he spoke often to the passersby, questioning them about their city — but they understood not his language, nor he their language.

  At the noon hour he stopped before a vast inn. It was built of yellow marble, and people were going in and coming out unhindered.