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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook Title: The Forerunner Author: Kahlil Gibran eBook No.: 0500571h.html Edition: 1 Language: English Character set encoding: HTML--Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit Date first posted: June 2005 Date most recently updated: June 2005 This eBook was produced by: Stuart kidd Production notes: Original file Courtesy of Kahlil Gibran Online - www.kahlil.org Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
CONTENTS
THE FORERUNNER
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
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 gathered 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.
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
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 passers-by,
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.
“This must be a shrine,’ he said to himself, and he too
went in. But what was his surprise to find himself in a hall of
great splendour and a large company of men and women seated about
many tables. They were eating and drinking and listening to the
musicians.
‘Nay,’ said the dreamer. ‘This is no worshipping.
It must be a feast given by the prince to the people, in
celebration of a great event.’
At that moment a man, whom he took to be the slave of the prince,
approached him, and bade him be seated. And he was served with meat
and wine and most excellent sweets.
When he was satisfied, the dreamer rose to depart. At the door he
was stopped by a large man magnificently arrayed.
‘Surely this is the prince himself,’ said the dreamer
in his heart, and he bowed to him and thanked him.
Then the large man said in the language of the city:
‘Sir, you have not paid for your dinner.’ And the
dreamer did not understand, and again thanked him heartily. Then
the large man bethought him, and he looked more closely upon the
dreamer. And he saw that he was a stranger, clad in but a poor
garment, and that indeed he had not wherewith to pay for his meal.
Then the large man clapped his hands and called – and there
came four watchmen of the city. And they listened to the large man.
Then they took the dreamer between them, and they were two on each
side of him. And the dreamer noted the ceremoniousness of their
dress and of their manner and he looked upon them with delight.
‘These,’ said he, ‘are men of
distinction.’
And they walked all together until they came to the House of
Judgement and they entered.
The dreamer saw before him, seated upon a throne, a venerable man
with flowing beard, robed majestically. And he thought he was the
king. And he rejoiced to be brought before him.
Now the watchmen related to the judge, who was the venerable man,
the charge against the dreamer, and the judge appointed two
advocates, one to present the charge and the other to defend the
stranger. And the advocates rose, the one after the other, and
delivered each his argument. And the dreamer thought himself to be
listening to addresses of welcome, and his heart filled with
gratitude to the king and the prince for all that was done for
him.
Then sentence was passed upon the dreamer, that upon a tablet about
his neck his crime should be written, and that he should ride
through the city on a naked horse, with a trumpeter and a drummer
before him. And the sentence was carried out forthwith.
Now as the dreamer rode through the city upon the naked horse, with
the trumpeter and the drummer before him, the inhabitants of the
city came running forth at the sound of the noise, and when they
saw him they laughed one and all, and the children ran after him in
companies from street to street. And the dreamer’s heart was
filled with ecstasy, and his eyes shone upon them. For to him the
tablet was a sign of the king’s blessing and the procession
was in his honour.
Now as he rode, he saw among the crowd a man who was from the
desert like himself and his heart swelled with joy, and he cried
out to him with a shout:
‘Friend! Friend! Where are we? What city of the heart’s
desire is this? What race of lavish hosts, who feast the chance
guest in their palaces, whose princes companion him, whose kings
hangs a token upon his breast and opens to him the hospitality of a
city descended from heaven?’
And he who was also of the desert replied not. He only smiled and
slightly shook his head. And the procession passed on.
And the dreamer’s face was uplifted and his eyes were
overflowing with light.
They say the jackal and the mole
Drink from the selfsame stream
Where the lion comes to drink.
And they say the eagle and the vulture
Dig their beaks into the same carcass,
And are at peace, one with the other,
In the presence of the dead thing.
O love, whose lordly hand
Has bridled my desires,
And raised my hunger and my thirst
To dignity and pride,
Let not the strong in me and the constant
Eat the bread or drink the wine
That tempt my weaker self.
Let me rather starve,
And let my heart parch with thirst,
And let me die and perish,
Ere I stretch my hand
To a cup you did not fill,
Or a bowl you did not bless.
They told me that in a forest among the mountains lives a young
man in solitude who once was a king of a vast country beyond the
Two Rivers. And they also said that he, of his own will, had left
his throne and the land of his glory and come to dwell in the
wilderness.
And I said, “I would seek that man, and learn the secret of
his heart; for he who renounces a kingdom must needs be greater
than a kingdom.”
On that very day I went to the forest where he dwells. And I found
him sitting under a white cypress, and in his hand a reed as if it
were a sceptre. And I greeted him even as I would greet a king. And
he turned to me and said gently, “What would you in this
forest of serenity? Seek you a lost self in the green shadows, or
is it a home-coming in your twilight?”
And I answered, “I sought but you – for I fain would
know that which made you leave a kingdom for a forest.”
And he said, “Brief is my story, for sudden was the bursting
of the bubble. It happened thus: one day as I sat at a window in my
palace, my chamberlain and an envoy from a foreign land were
walking in my garden. And as they approached my window, the lord
chamberlain was speaking of himself and saying, ‘I am like
the king; I have a thirst for strong wine and a hunger for all
games of chance. And like my lord the king I have storms of
temper.’ And the lord chamberlain and the envoy disappeared
among the trees. But in a few minutes they returned, and this time
the lord chamberlain was speaking of me, and he was saying,
‘My lord the king is like myself – a good marksman; and
like me he loves music and bathes thrice a day.’ ”
After a moment he added, “On the eve of that day I left my
palace with but my garment, for I would no longer be ruler over
those who assume my vices and attribute to me their
virtues.”
And I said, “This is indeed a wonder, and passing
strange.”
And he said, “Nay, my friend, you knocked at the gate of my
silences and received but a trifle. For who would not leave a
kingdom for a forest where the seasons sing and dance ceaselessly?
Many are those who have given their kingdom for less than solitude
and the sweet fellowship of aloneness. Countless are the eagles who
descend from the upper air to live with moles that they may know
the secrets of the earth. There are those who renounce the kingdom
of dreams that they may not seem distant from the dreamless. And
those who renounce the kingdom of nakedness and cover their souls
that others may not be ashamed in beholding truth uncovered and
beauty unveiled. And greater yet than all of these is he who
renounces the kingdom of sorrow that he may not seem proud and
vainglorious.”
Then rising he leaned upon his reed and said, “Go now to the
great city and sit at its gate and watch all those who enter into
it and those who go out. And see that you find him who, though born
a king, is without kingdom; and him who though ruled in flesh rules
in spirit – though neither he nor his subjects know this; and
him also who but seems to rule yet is in truth slave of his own
slaves.”
After he had said these things he smiled on me, and there were a
thousand dawns upon his lips. Then he turned and walked away into
the heart of the forest.
And I returned to the city, and I sat at its gate to watch the
passers-by even as he had told me. And from that day to this
numberless are the kings whose shadows have passed over me and few
are the subjects over whom my shadow passed.
Four slaves stood fanning an old queen who was asleep upon her
throne. And she was snoring. And upon the queen’s lap a cat
lay purring and gazing lazily at the slaves.
The first slave spoke, and said, “How ugly this old woman is
in her sleep. See her mouth droop; and she breathes as if the devil
were choking her.”
Then the cat said, purring, “Not half so ugly in her sleep
as you in your waking slavery.”
And the second slave said, “You would think sleep would
smooth her wrinkles instead of deepening them. She must be dreaming
of something evil.”
And the cat purred, “Would that you might sleep also and
dream of your freedom.”
And the third slave said, “Perhaps she is seeing the
procession of all those that she has slain.”
And the cat purred, “Aye, she sees the procession of your
forefathers and your descendants.”
And the fourth slave said, “It is all very well to talk about
her, but it does not make me less weary of standing and
fanning.”
And the cat purred, “You shall be fanning to all eternity;
for as it is on earth, so it is in heaven.”
At this moment the old queen nodded in her sleep, and her crown
fell to the floor.
And one of the slaves said, “That is a bad omen.”
And the cat purred, “The bad omen of one is the good omen
of another.”
And the second slave said, “What if she should wake, and find
her crown fallen! She would surely slay us.”
And the cat purred, “Daily from your birth she has slain
you and you know it not.”
And the third slave said, “Yes, she would slay us and she
would call it making a sacrifice to the gods.”
And the cat purred, “Only the weak are sacrificed to the
gods.”
And the fourth slave silenced the others, and softly he picked up
the crown and replaced it, without waking her, on the old
queen’s head.
And the cat purred, “Only a slave restores a crown that
has fallen.”
And after a while the old queen woke, and she looked about her and
yawned. Then she said, “Methought I dreamed, and I saw four
caterpillars chased by a scorpion around the trunk of an ancient
oak tree. I like not my dream.”
Then she closed her eyes and went to sleep again. And she snored.
And the four slaves went on fanning her.
And the cat purred, “Fan on, fan on, stupids. You fan but
the fire that consumes you.”
Thus sings the she-dragon that guards the seven caves by the
sea:
“My mate shall come riding on the waves. His thundering roar
shall fill the earth with fear, and the flames of his nostrils
shall set the sky afire. At the eclipse of the moon we shall be
wedded, and at the eclipse of the sun I shall give birth to a Saint
George, who shall slay me.”
Thus sings the she-dragon that guards the seven caves by the
sea.
In my youth I once visited a saint in his silent grove beyond
the hills; and as we were conversing upon the nature of virtue a
brigand came limping wearily up the ridge. When he reached the
grove he knelt down before the saint and said, “O saint, I
would be comforted! My sins are heavy upon me.”
And the saint replied, “My sins, too, are heavy upon
me.”
And the brigand said, “But I am a thief and a
plunderer.”
And the saint replied, “I too am a thief and a
plunderer.”
And the brigand said, “But I am a murderer, and the blood of
many men cries in my ears.”
And the saint replied, “ I am a murderer, and in my ears
cries the blood of many men.”
And the brigand said, “I have committed countless
crimes.”
And the saint replied, “I too have committed crimes without
number.”
Then the brigand stood up and gazed at the saint, and there was a
strange look in his eyes. And when he left us he went skipping down
the hill.
And I turned to the saint and said, “Wherefore did you accuse
yourself of uncommitted crimes? See you not this man went away no
longer believing in you?”
And the saint answered, “It is true he no longer believes in
me. But he went away much comforted.”
At that moment we heard the brigand singing in the distance, and
the echo of his song filled the valley with gladness.
In my wanderings I once saw upon an island a man-headed,
iron-hoofed monster who ate of the earth and drank of the sea
incessantly. And for a long while I watched him. Then I approached
him and said, “Have you never enough; is your hunger never
satisfied and your thirst never quenched?”
And he answered saying, “Yes, I am satisfied, nay, I am weary
of eating and drinking; but I am afraid that tomorrow there will be
no more earth to eat and no more sea to drink.”
This came to pass. After the coronation of Nufsibaal King of
Byblus, he retired to his bed-chamber – the very room which
the three hermit-magicians of the mountains had built for him. He
took off his crown and his royal raiment, and stood in the centre
of the room thinking of himself, now the all-powerful ruler of
Byblus.
Suddenly he turned; and he saw stepping out of the silver mirror
which his mother had given him, a naked man.
The king was startled, and he cried out to the man, “What
would you?”
And the naked man answered, “Naught but this: Why have they
crowned you king?”
And the king answered, “Because I am the noblest man in the
land.”
Then the naked man said, “If you were still more noble, you
would not be king.”
And the king said, “Because I am the mightiest man in the
land they crowned me.”
And the naked man said, “If you were mightier yet, you would
not be king.”
Then the king said, “Because I am the wisest man they crowned
me king.”
And the naked man said, “If you were still wiser you would
not choose to be king.”
Then the king fell to the floor and wept bitterly.
The naked man looked down upon him. Then he took up the crown and
with tenderness replaced it upon the king’s bent head.
And the naked man, gazing lovingly upon the king, entered into the
mirror.
And the king roused, and straightway he looked into the mirror. And
he saw there but himself crowned.
Once, high above a pasture, where a sheep and a lamb were
grazing, an eagle was circling and gazing hungrily down upon the
lamb. And as he was about to descend and seize his prey, another
eagle appeared and hovered above the sheep and her young with the
same hungry intent. Then the two rivals began to fight, filling the
sky with their fierce cries.
The sheep looked up and was much astonished. She turned to the lamb
and said:
“How strange, my child, that these two noble birds should
attack one another. Is not the vast sky large enough for both of
them? Pray, my little one, pray in your heart that God may make
peace between your winged brothers.”
And the lamb prayed in his heart.
One nightfall a man travelling on horseback towards the sea
reached an inn by the roadside. He dismounted and, confident in man
and night like all riders towards the sea, he tied his horse to a
tree beside the door and entered into the inn.
At midnight, when all were asleep, a thief came and stole the
traveller’s horse.
In the morning the man awoke, and discovered that his horse was
stolen. And he grieved for his horse, and that a man had found it
in his heart to steal.
Then his fellow lodgers came and stood around him and began to
talk.
And the first man said, “How foolish of you to tie your horse
outside the stable.”
And the second said, “ Still more foolish, without even
hobbling the horse!”
And the third man said, “It is stupid at best to travel to
the sea on horseback.”
And the fourth said, “Only the indolent and the slow of foot
own horses.”
Then the traveller was much astonished. At last he cried, “My
friends, because my horse was stolen, you have hastened one and all
to tell me my faults and my shortcomings. But strange, not one word
of reproach have you uttered about the man who stole my
horse.”
Four poets were sitting around a bowl of punch that stood on a
table.
Said the first poet, “Methinks I see with my third eye the
fragrance of this wine hovering in space like a cloud of birds in
an enchanted forest.”
The second poet raised his head and said, “With my inner ear
I can hear those mist-birds singing. And the melody holds my heart
as the white rose imprisons the bee within her petals.”
The third poet closed his eyes and stretched his arm upwards, and
said, “I touch them with my hand. I feel their wings, like
the breath of a sleeping fairy, brushing against my
fingers.”
Then the fourth poet rose and lifted up the bowl, and he said,
“Alas, friends! I am too dull of sight and of hearing and of
touch. I cannot see the fragrance of this wine, nor hear its song,
nor feel the beating of its wings. I perceive but the wine itself.
Now therefore must I drink it, that it may sharpen my senses and
raise me to your blissful heights.”
And putting the bowl to his lips, he drank the punch to the very
last drop.
The three poets, with their mouths open, looked at him aghast, and
there was a thirsty yet unlyrical hatred in their eyes.
Said the weather-cock to the wind, “How tedious and
monotonous you are! Can you not blow any other way but in my face?
You disturb my God-given stability.”
And the wind did not answer. It only laughed in space.
Once the elders of the city of Aradus presented themselves
before the king, and besought of him a decree to forbid to men all
wine and all intoxicants within their city.
And the king turned his back upon them and went out from them
laughing.
Then the elders departed in dismay.
At the door of the palace they met the lord chamberlain. And the
lord chamberlain observed that they were troubled, and he
understood their case.
Then he said, “Pity, my friends! Had you found the king
drunk, surely he would have granted you your petition.”
Out of my deeper heart a bird rose and flew skywards.
Higher and higher did it rise, yet larger and larger did it
grow.
At first it was but like a swallow, then a lark, then an eagle,
then as vast as a spring cloud, and then it filled the starry
heavens.
Out of my heart a bird flew skywards. And it waxed larger as it
flew. Yet it left not my heart.
O my faith, my untamed knowledge, how shall I fly to your height
and see with you man’s larger self pencilled upon the
sky?
How shall I turn this sea within me into mist, and move with you in
space immeasurable?
How can a prisoner within the temple behold its golden domes?
How shall the heart of a fruit be stretched to envelop the fruit
also?
O my faith, I am in chains behind these bars of silver and ebony,
and I cannot fly with you.
Yet out of my heart you rise skyward, and it is my heart that holds
you, and I shall be content.
The queen of Ishana was in travail of childbirth; and the king
and the mighty men of his court were waiting in breathless anxiety
in the great hall of the Winged Bulls.
At eventide there came suddenly a messenger in haste and prostrated
himself before the king, and said, “I bring glad tidings unto
my lord the king, and unto the kingdom and the slaves of the king.
Mihrab the Cruel, thy life-long enemy, the king of Bethroun, is
dead.”
When the king and the mighty men heard this, they all rose and
shouted for joy; for the powerful Mihrab, had he lived longer, had
assuredly overcome Ishana and carried the inhabitants captive.
At this moment the court physician also entered the hall of Winged
Bulls, and behind him came the royal midwives. And the physician
prostrated himself before the king, and said, “My lord the
king shall live for ever, and through countless generations shall
he rule over the people of Ishana. For unto thee, O King, is born
this very hour a son, who shall be thy heir.”
Then indeed was the soul of the king intoxicated with joy, that in
the same moment his foe was dead and the royal line was
established.
Now in the city of Ishana lived a true prophet. And the prophet was
young, and bold of spirit. And the king that very night ordered
that the prophet should be brought before him. And when he was
brought, the king said unto him, “Prophesy now, and foretell
what shall be the future of my son who is this day born unto the
kingdom.”
And the prophet hesitated not, but said, “Hearken, O King,
and I will indeed prophesy of the future of thy son that is this
day born. The soul of thy enemy, even of thy enemy King Mihrab, who
died yester-eve, lingered but a day upon the wind. Then it sought
for itself a body to enter into. And that which it entered into was
the body of thy son that is born unto thee this hour.”
Then the king was enraged, and with his sword he slew the
prophet.
And from that day to this, the wise men of Ishana say one to
another secretly, “Is it not known, and has it not been said
from of old, that Ishana is ruled by an enemy?”
Four frogs sat upon a log that lay floating on the edge of a
river. Suddenly the log was caught by the current and swept slowly
down the stream. The frogs were delighted and absorbed, for never
before had they sailed.
At length the first frog spoke, and said, “This is indeed a
most marvellous log. It moves as if alive. No such log was ever
known before.”
Then the second frog spoke, and said, “Nay, my friend, the
log is like other logs, and does not move. It is the river that is
walking to the sea, and carries us and the log with it.”
And the third frog spoke, and said, “It is neither the log
nor the river that moves. The moving is in our thinking. For
without thought nothing moves.”
And the three frogs began to wrangle about what was really moving.
The quarrel grew hotter and louder, but they could not agree.
Then they turned to the fourth frog, who up to this time had been
listening attentively but holding his peace, and they asked his
opinion.
And the fourth frog said, “Each of you is right, and none of
you is wrong. The moving is in the log and the water and our
thinking also.”
And the three frogs became very angry, for none of them was willing
to admit that his was not the whole truth, and that the other two
were not wholly wrong.
Then a strange thing happened. The three frogs got together and
pushed the fourth frog off the log into the river.
Said a sheet of snow-white paper, “Pure was I created, and
pure will I remain for ever. I would rather be burnt and turn to
white ashes than suffer darkness to touch me or the unclean to come
near me.”
The ink-bottle heard what the paper was saying, and it laughed in
its dark heart; but it never dared to approach her. And the
multicoloured pencils heard her also, and they too never came near
her.
And the snow-white sheet of paper did remain pure and chaste for
ever, pure and chaste – and empty.
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 then 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 he who eats of that root becomes
fairer than Ashtarte.”
And the lark said, “No one, no one but thee could inveil 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 he 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 temple, 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 he 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.”
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.”
Once a man unearthed in his field a marble statue of great
beauty. And he took it to a collector who loved all beautiful
things and offered it to him for sale, and the collector bought it
for a large price. And they parted.
And as the man walked home with his money he thought, and he said
to himself, “How much life this money means! How can anyone
give all this for a dead carved stone buried and undreamed of in
the earth for a thousand years?”
And now the collector was looking at his statue, and he was
thinking, and he said to himself, “What beauty! What life!
The dream of what a soul! – and fresh with the sweet sleep of
a thousand years. How can anyone give all this for money, dead and
dreamless?”
A fish said to another fish, “Above this sea of ours there
is another sea, with creatures swimming in it – and they live
there even as we live here.”
The 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?”
On a moonless night a man entered into his neighbour’s
garden and stole the largest melon he could find and brought it
home.
He opened it and found it still unripe.
Then behold a marvel!
The man’s conscience woke and smote him with remorse; and he
repented having stolen the melon.
Wait, wait yet awhile, my eager friend.
I shall yield but too soon this wasted thing,
Whose agony overwrought and useless
Exhausts your patience.
I would not have your honest hunger
Wait upon these moments:
But this chain, though made of breath,
Is hard to break.
And the will to die,
Stronger than all things strong,
Is stayed by a will to live
Feebler than all things feeble.
Forgive me, comrade; I tarry too long.
It is memory that holds my spirit;
A procession of distant days,
A vision of youth spent in a dream,
A face that bids my eyelids not to sleep,
A voice that lingers in my ears,
A hand that touches my hand.
Forgive me that you have waited too long.
It is over now, and all is faded:
The face, the voice, the hand and the mist that brought them
hither.
The knot is untied.
The cord is cleaved.
And that which is neither food nor drink is withdrawn.
Approach, my hungry comrade;
The board is made ready.
And the fare, frugal and spare,
Is given with love.
Come, and dig your beak here, into the left side,
And tear out of its cage this smaller bird,
Whose wings can beat no more:
I would have it soar with you into the sky.
Come now, my friend, I am your host tonight,
And you my welcome guest.
Beyond my solitude is another solitude, and to him who dwells
therein my aloneness is a crowded market-place and my silence a
confusion of sounds.
Too young am I and too restless to seek that above-solitude. The
voices of yonder valley still hold my ears and its shadows bar my
way and I cannot go.
Beyond these hills is a grove of enchantment and to him who dwells
therein my peace is but a whirlwind and my enchantment an
illusion.
Too young am I and too riotous to seek that sacred grove. The taste
of blood is clinging in my mouth, and the bow and the arrows of my
fathers yet linger in my hand and I cannot go.
Beyond this burdened self lives my freer self; and to him my dreams
are a battle fought in twilight and my desires the rattling of
bones.
Too young am I and too outraged to be my freer self.
And how shall I become my freer self unless I slay my burdened
selves, or unless all men become free?
How shall the eagle in me soar against the sun until my fledglings
leave the nest which I with my own beak have built for them?
At high tide of night, when the first breath of dawn came upon
the wind, the forerunner, he who calls himself echo to a voice yet
unheard, left his bed-chamber and ascended to the roof of his
house. Long he stood and looked down upon the slumbering city. Then
he raised his head, and even as if the sleepless spirits of all
those asleep had gathered around him, he opened his lips and spoke,
and he said:
“My friends and neighbours and you who daily pass my gate, I
would speak to you in your sleep, and in the valley of your dreams
I would walk naked and unrestrained; for heedless are your waking
hours and deaf are your sound-burdened ears.
“Long did I love you and overmuch.
“I love the one among you as though he were all, and all as
if you were one. And in the spring of my heart I sang in your
gardens, and in the summer of my heart I watched at your
threshing-floors.
“Yea, I loved you all, the giant and the pygmy, the leper and
the anointed, and him who gropes in the dark even as him who dances
his days upon the mountains.
“You, the strong, have I loved, though the marks of your iron
hoofs are yet upon my flesh; and you the weak, though you have
drained my faith and wasted my patience.
“You the rich have I loved, while bitter was your honey to my
mouth; and you the poor, though you knew my empty-handed shame.
“You the poet with the bowed lute and blind fingers, you have
I loved in self-indulgence; and you the scholar ever gathering
rotted shrouds in potters’ fields.
“You the priest I have loved, who sit in the silences of
yesterday questioning the fate of my tomorrow; and you the
worshippers of gods the images of your own desires.
“You the thirsting woman whose cup is ever full, I have loved
in understanding; and you the woman of restless nights, you too I
have loved in pity.
“You the talkative have I loved, saying, ‘Life hath
much to say’; and you the dumb have I loved, whispering to
myself, ‘Says he not in silence that which I fain would hear
in words?”
“And you the judge and the critic, I have loved also; yet
when you have seen me crucified, you said, ‘He bleeds
rhythmically, and the pattern his blood makes upon his white skin
is beautiful to behold.’
“Yea, I have loved you all, the young and the old, the
trembling reed and the oak.
“But, alas, it was the over-abundance of my heart that turned
you from me. You would drink love from a cup, but not from a
surging river. You would hear love’s faint murmur, but when
love shouts you would muffle your ears.
“And because I have loved you all you have said, ‘Too
soft and yielding is his heart, and too undiscerning is his path.
It is the love of a needy one, who picks crumbs even as he sits at
kingly feasts. And it is the love of a weakling, for the strong
loves only the strong.”
“And because I have loved you overmuch you have said,
‘It is but the love of a blind man who knows not the beauty
of one nor the ugliness of another. And it is the love of the
tasteless who drinks vinegar even as wine. And it is the love of
the impertinent and the overweening, for what stranger could be our
mother and father and sister and brother?’
“This you have said, and more. For often in the market-place
you pointed your fingers at me and said mockingly, ‘There
goes the ageless one, the man without seasons, who at the noon hour
plays games with our children and at eventide sits with our elders
and assumes wisdom and understanding.’
“And I said, ‘I will love them more. Aye, even more. I
will hide my love with seeming to hate, and disguise my tenderness
as bitterness. I will wear an iron mask, and only when armed and
mailed shall I seek them.’
“Then I laid a heavy hand upon your bruises, and like a
tempest in the night I thundered in your ears.
“From the housetop I proclaimed you hypocrites, Pharisees,
tricksters, false and empty earth-bubbles.
“The short-sighted among you I cursed for blind bats, and
those too near the earth I likened to soulless moles.
“The eloquent I pronounced fork-tongued, the silent,
stone-lipped, and the simple and artless I called the dead never
weary of death.
“The seekers after world knowledge I condemned as offenders
of the holy spirit and those who would naught but the spirit I
branded as hunters of shadows who cast their nets in flat waters
and catch but their own images.
“Thus with my lips have I denounced you, while my heart,
bleeding within me, called you tender names.
“It was love lashed by its own self that spoke. It was pride
half slain that fluttered in the dust. It was my hunger for your
love that raged from the housetop, while my own love, kneeling in
silence, prayed your forgiveness.
“But behold a miracle!
“It was my disguise that opened your eyes, and my seeming to
hate that woke your hearts.
“And now you love me.
“You love the swords that stroke you and the arrows that
crave your breast. For it comforts you to be wounded and only when
you drink of your own blood can you be intoxicated.
“Like moths that seek destruction in the flame you gather
daily in my garden; and with faces uplifted and eyes enchanted you
watch me tear the fabric of your days. And in whispers you say the
one to the other, ‘He sees with the light of God. He speaks
like the prophets of old. He unveils our souls and unlocks our
hearts, and like the eagle that knows the way of foxes he knows our
ways.’
“Aye, in truth, I know your ways, but only as an eagle knows
the ways of his fledglings. And I fain would disclose my secret.
Yet in my need for your nearness I feign remoteness, and in fear of
the ebb tide of your love I guard the floodgates of my
love.”
After saying these things the forerunner covered his face with his
hands and wept bitterly. For he knew in his heart that love
humiliated in its nakedness is greater than love that seeks triumph
in disguise; and he was ashamed.
fsBut suddenly he raised his head, and like one waking from sleep
he outstretched his arms and said, “Night is over, and we
children of night must die when dawn comes leaping upon the hills;
and out of our ashes a mightier love shall rise. And it shall laugh
in the sun, and it shall be deathless.”
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