granate, I heard a seed saying, “Someday I shall
become a tree, and the wind will sing in my
branches, and the sun will dance on my leaves,
and I shall be strong and beautiful through all
the seasons.”
Then another seed spoke and said, “When I
was as young as you, I too held such views, but
now that I can weigh and measure things, I see
that my hopes were vain.”
And a third seed spoke also, “I see in us
nothing that promises so great a future.”
And a fourth said, “But what a mockery our
life would be without a greater future!”
Said a fifth, “Why dispute what we shall be,
when we know not even what we are?”
But a sixth replied, “Whatever we are, that
we shall continue to be.”
And a seventh said, “I have such a clear
idea how everything will be, but I cannot put it
into words.”
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Then an eight spoke—and a ninth—and a
tenth—and then many—until all were speak-
ing, and I could distinguish nothing for the
many voices.
And so I moved that very day into the heart
of a quince, where the seeds are few and almost
silent.
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SOLITUDE
Solitude is a silent storm
that breaks down all our dead branches.
Yet it sends our living roots deeper
into the living heart of the living earth.
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LIVING WATER
And in this lies my honor and my reward:
that whenever I come to the fountain to drink
I find the living water itself thirsty.
And it drinks me
while I drink it.
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OTHER SEAS
A fish said to another fish, “Above this sea of
ours there is another sea, with creatures swim-
ming in it—and they live there even as we
live here.”
The other fish replied, “Pure fancy! Pure
fancy! When you know that everything that
leaves our sea by even an inch, and stays out of
it, dies. What proof have you of other lives in
other seas?”
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THE RIVER
In the valley of Kadisha1 where the mighty
river flows, two little streams met and spoke to
one another.
One stream said, “How came you, my friend,
and how was your path?”
And the other answered, “My path was most
encumbered. The wheel of the mill was broken,
and the master farmer who used to conduct me
from my channel to his plants is dead. I strug-
gled down, oozing with the filth of laziness in
the sun. But how was your path, my brother?”
And the other stream answered and said,
“Mine was a different path. I came down the
hills among fragrant flowers and shy willows.
Men and women drank of me with silvery cups,
and little children paddled their rosy feet at my
edges, and there was laughter all about me, and
1. A valley southeast of Tripoli in northern Lebanon. “Kadisha” or
Qadisha means “holy” in Aramaic. The Kadisha valley’s many
natural caves were occupied since Paleolithic times and served
as places of refuge for Christian and Muslim mystics. In 1998,
UNESCO added the valley to its list of World Heritage Sites.
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there were sweet songs. What a pity that your
path was not so happy.”
At that moment the river spoke with a loud
voice and said, “Come in, come in, we are going
to the sea! Come in, come in, speak no more. Be
with me now. We are going to the sea. Come in,
come in, for in me you shall forget your wan-
derings, sad or gay. Come in, come in! And you
and I will forget all our ways when we reach the
heart of our mother the sea.”
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CONTENTMENT AND THRIFT
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?
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THE LOTUS-HEART
A lover and beloved at the time of Jesus:
Upon a day, my beloved and I were rowing
upon the lake of sweet waters. And the hills of
Lebanon were about us.
We moved beside the weeping willows,
and the reflections of the willows were deep
around us.
And while I steered the boat with an oar, my
beloved took her lute and sang thus:
What flower save the lotus
knows the waters and the sun?
What heart save the lotus-heart
shall know both earth and sky?
Behold my love, the golden flower
that floats ’twixt deep and high
even as you and I float betwixt a love
that has forever been
and shall forever be.
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Dip your oar, my love,
and let me touch my strings.
Let us follow the willows,
and let us leave not the water-lilies.
In Nazareth there lives a poet,
and his heart is like the lotus.
He has visited the soul of woman.
He knows her thirst is
growing out of the waters,
and her hunger is for the sun,
though all her lips are fed.
They say he walks in Galilee.
I say he is rowing with us.
Can you not see his face, my love?
Can you not see where the willow bough
and its reflection meet—
how he is moving as we move?
Beloved, it is good to know the youth of life.
It is good to know its singing joy.
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Would that you might always have the oar
where the lotus laughs in the sun,
and the willow is dipping to the waters,
and his voice is upon my strings.
Dip your oar, my beloved,
and let me touch my strings.
There is a poet in Nazareth
who knows and loves us both.
Dip your oar, my lover,
and let me touch my strings.
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THE SHADOW
Upon a June day the grass said to the shadow of
an elm tree,
“You move to right and left over often, and
you disturb my peace.”
And the shadow answered and said,
“Not I, not I. Look skyward. There is a tree
that moves in the wind to the east and to the
west, between the sun and the earth.”
And the grass looked up, and for the first
time beheld the tree. And it said in its heart,
“Why, behold, there is a larger grass than
myself!”
And the grass was silent.
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THE SERPENT AND THE LARK
Said the serpent to the lark, “Thou flyest, yet
thou canst not visit the recesses of the earth
where the sap of life moveth in perfect silence.”
And the lark answered, “Aye, thou knowest
over much. Nay, thou art wiser than all things
wise—pity thou canst not fly.”
And as if he did not hear, the serpent said,
“Thou canst not see the secrets of the deep, nor
move among the treasures of the hidden empire.
It was but yesterday I lay in a cave of rubies. It
is like the heart of a ripe pomegranate, and the
faintest ray of light turns into a flame rose. Who
but me can behold such marvels?”
And the lark said, “None, none but thee can
lie among the crystal memories of the cycles—
pity thou canst not sing.”
And the serpent said, “I know a plant whose
root descends to the bowels of the earth, and
the one who eats of that root becomes fairer
than Astarte.”
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And the lark said, “No one, no one but thee
could unveil the magic thought of the earth—
pity thou canst not fly.”
And the serpent said, “There is a purple
stream that runneth under a mountain, and the
one who drinketh of it shall become immortal
even as the gods. Surely no bird or beast can
discover that purple stream.”
And the lark answered, “If thou willest, thou
canst become deathless even as the gods—pity
thou canst not sing.”
And the serpent said, “I know a buried tem-
ple, which I visit once a moon. It was built by a
forgotten race of giants, and upon its walls are
graven the secrets of time and space, and the
one who reads them shall understand that which
passeth all understanding.”
And the lark said, “Verily, if thou so desirest
thou canst encircle with thy pliant body all
knowledge of time and space—pity thou canst
not fly.”
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Then the serpent was disgusted, and as he
turned and entered into his hole he muttered,
“Empty headed songster!”
And the lark flew away singing, “Pity thou
canst not sing. Pity, pity, my wise one, thou canst
not fly.”
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FROGS: ON THE NATURE OF
DISTURBANCE
Upon a summer day, a frog said to its mate, “I
fear those people living in that house on the
shore are disturbed by our night songs.”
And its mate answered and said, “Well, do
they not annoy our silence during the day with
their talking?”
The frog said, “Let us not forget that we may
sing too much in the night.”
And its mate answered, “Let us not forget that
they chatter and shout overmuch during the day.”
Said the frog, “How about the bullfrog who
disturbs the whole neighborhood with its God-
forbidden booming?”
And its mate replied, “Aye, and what say you
of the politician and the priest and the scientist
who come to these shores and fill the air with
noisy and rhymeless sound?”
Then the frog said, “Well, let us be better
than these human beings. Let us be quiet at
night, and keep our songs in our hearts, even
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though the moon calls for our rhythm and the
stars for our rhyme. At least, let us be silent for a
night or two, or even for three nights.”
And its mate said, “Very well, I agree. We
shall see what your bountiful heart will bring
forth.”
That night the frogs were silent, and they
were silent the following night also, and again
upon the third night.
And strange to relate, the talkative woman
who lived in the house beside the lake came
down to breakfast on that third day and shouted
to her husband, “I have not slept these three
nights. I was secure with sleep when the noise
of the frogs was in my ear. But something must
have happened. They have not sung now for
three nights, and I am almost maddened with
sleeplessness.”
The frog heard this and turned to its mate
and said, winking its eye, “And we were almost
maddened with our silence, were we not?”
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And its mate answered, “Yes, the silence of
the night was heavy upon us. And I can see now
that there is no need for us to cease our sing-
ing for the comfort of those who must needs fill
their emptiness with noise.”
And that night the moon called not in vain
for their rhythm nor the stars for their rhyme.
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SONG OF THE FLOWER
I am a kind word uttered and repeated
by the voice of Nature.
I am a star fallen from the
blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements
with whom winter conceived,
to whom
spring gave birth.
I was reared in the lap of summer,
and I slept in the bed of autumn.
At dawn I unite with the breeze
to announce the coming of light.
At eventide I join the birds
in bidding the light farewell.
The plains are decorated
with my beautiful colors,
and the air is scented with my fragrance.
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As I embrace slumber
the eyes of night watch over me,
and as I awaken I stare at the sun,
which is the only eye of the day.
I drink dew for wine
and harken to the voices of the birds
and dance to the
rhythmic swaying of the grass.
I am the lover’s gift.
I am the wedding wreath.
I am the memory of a moment of happiness.
I am the last gift of the living to the dead.
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.
But I look up high to see only the light
and never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom that humanity must learn.
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SPRING IN LEBANON
Spring is beautiful everywhere, but it is most
beautiful in Lebanon. It is a spirit that roams
round the earth but hovers over Lebanon, con-
versing with kings and prophets, singing with
the rivers the songs of Solomon and repeating
with the Holy Cedars of Lebanon the memory of
ancient glory.
Beirut, free from the mud of winter and the
dust of summer, is like a bride in the spring, or
like a mermaid sitting by the side of a brook dry-
ing her smooth skin in the rays of the sun.
Poets of the West think of Lebanon as a
legendary place, forgotten since the passing of
David and Solomon and the prophets, as the
Garden of Eden became lost after the fall of
Adam and Eve.
To those Western poets, the word Lebanon is
a poetical expression associated with a mountain
whose sides are drenched with the incense of the
Holy Cedars. It reminds them of the temples of
copper and marble standing stern and impregna-
ble and of a herd of deer feeding in the valleys.
K A H L I L G I B R A N ’ S L I T T L E B O O K O F L I F E