"The Prophet" is a book
written by Lebanese author Kahlil Gibran (January 6, 1883 – April
10, 1931), published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1923. It is composed 26
essays on the human situation, with topics ranging from love,
marriage, buying and selling, beauty, religion, and death. It tells
the story of Almustafa the prophet, who is about to board a ship
after his twelve-year ministry in the foreign city of Orphalese. He
is stopped by a group of people, led by a woman named Almitra, who
asked him his final words on various topics.
Gibran was born to a Maronite
Catholic family. He is said to be the third most well-read authors in
the world, after William Shakespeare and Laozi (Lao Tzu).
Excerpts
from “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran
The Coming of
the Ship
Almustafa, the
chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto his own day, had waited
twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return
and bear him back to the isle of his birth.
And in the twelfth
year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed
the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld the
ship coming with the mist.
Then the gates of
his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he
closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.
But he descended
the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart:
How shall I go in
peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit
shall I leave this city.
Long were the days
of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of
aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without
regret?
Too many fragments
of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the
children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I
cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.
It is not a garment
I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is
it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger
and with thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry
longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must
embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze
and crystallize and be bound in a mould.
Fain would I take
with me all that is here. But how shall I?
A voice cannot
carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek
the ether.
And alone and
without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.
Now when he reached
the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his
ship approaching the harbour, and upon her prow the mariners, the men
of his own land.
And his soul cried
out to them, and he said:
Sons of my ancient
mother, you riders of the tides,
How often have you
sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my
deeper dream.
Ready am I to go,
and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.
Only another breath
will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast
backward,
Then I shall stand
among you, a seafarer among seafarers.
And you, vast sea,
sleepless mother, Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and
the stream,
Only another
winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade, And
then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.
And as he walked he
saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards
and hastening towards the city gates.
And he heard their
voices calling his name, and shouting from the field to field telling
one another of the coming of the ship.
And he said to
himself:
Shall the day of
parting be the day of gathering?
And shall it be
said that my eve was in truth my dawn?
And what shall I
give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has
stopped the wheel of his winepress?
Shall my heart
become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto
them?
And shall my
desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?
Am I a harp that
the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may
pass through me?
A seeker of
silences am I, and what treasure have I found in silences that I may
dispense with confidence?
If this is my day
of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what
unrembered seasons?
If this indeed be
the our in which I lift up my lantern, it is not my flame that shall
burn therein.
Empty and dark
shall I raise my lantern,
And the guardian of
the night shall fill it with oil and he shall light it also.
These things he
said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself
could not speak his deeper secret.
And when he entered
into the city all the people came to meet him, and they were crying
out to him as with one voice.
And the elders of
the city stood forth and said:
Go not yet away
from us.
A noontide have
you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to
dream.
No stranger are you
among us, nor a guest, but our son and our dearly beloved. Suffer not
yet our eyes to hunger for your face.
And the priests and
the priestesses said unto him:
Let not the waves
of the sea separate us now, and the years you have spent in our midst
become a memory.
You have walked
among us a spirit, and your shadow has been a light upon our faces.
Much have we loved
you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled.
Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you.
And ever has it
been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
And others came
also and entreated him.
But he answered
them not. He only bent his head; and those who stood near saw his
tears falling upon his breast.
And he and the
people proceeded towards the great square before the temple. And
there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra. And
she was a seeress.
And he looked upon
her with exceeding tenderness, for it was she who had first sought
and believed in him when he had been but a day in their city.
And she hailed him,
saying: Prophet of God, in quest for the uttermost, long have you
searched the distances for your ship.
And now your ship
has come, and you must needs go.
Deep is your
longing for the land of your memories and the dwelling place of your
greater desires; and our love would not bind you nor our needs hold
you.
Yet this we ask ere
you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth. And we
will give it unto our children, and they unto their children, and it
shall not perish.
In your aloneness
you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have
listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.
Now therefore
disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of
that which is between birth and death.
And he answered,
People of
Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving
your souls?
On Love
Then said Almitra,
"Speak to us of Love."
And he raised his
head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon
them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons
to you follow him,
Though his ways are
hard and steep.
And when his wings
enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword
hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you
believe in him,
Though his voice
may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love
crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so
is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends
to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in
the sun,
So shall he descend
to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like
sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to
make you naked.
He sifts you to
free you from your husks.
He grinds you to
whiteness.
He kneads you until
you are pliant;
And then he assigns
you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's
sacred feast.
All these things
shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart,
and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear
you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better
for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's
threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless
world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep,
but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught
but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not
nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you
love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather,
I am in the heart of God."
And think not you
can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your
course.
Love has no other
desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and
must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like
a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of
too much tenderness.
To be wounded by
your own understanding of love;
And to bleed
willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn
with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon
hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at
eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep
with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon
your lips.
On Marriage
Then Almitra spoke
again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"
And he answered
saying:
You were born
together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be
together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be
together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be
spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds
of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another
but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a
moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's
cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of
your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance
together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings
of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts,
but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand
of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together,
yet not too near together:
For the pillars of
the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree
and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
On Children
And a woman who
held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are
not your children.
They are the sons
and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through
you but not from you,
And though they are
with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them
your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their
own thoughts.
You may house their
bodies but not their souls,
For their souls
dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in
your dreams.
You may strive to
be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not
backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows
from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the
mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in
the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he
loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
