The Prophet
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.
***** *****
Then said a rich man, Speak to us of
_Giving_.
And he answered:
You give but little when you give of
your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you
truly give.
For what are your possessions but things
you keep and guard for fear you may need
them tomorrow?
And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring
to the overprudent dog burying bones
in the trackless sand as he follows the
pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need but need
itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is
full, the thirst that is unquenchable?
There are those who give little of the
much which they have--and they give
it for recognition and their hidden
desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and
give it all.
These are the believers in life and
the bounty of life, and their coffer is
never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and
that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain,
and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know
not pain in giving, nor do they seek
joy, nor give with mindfulness of
virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle
breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God
speaks, and from behind their eyes He
smiles upon the earth.
It is well to give when asked, but it
is better to give unasked, through
understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for
one who shall receive is joy greater
than giving.
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season
of giving may be yours and not your
inheritors’.
You often say, “I would give, but only
to the deserving.”
The trees in your orchard say not so,
nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to
withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his
days and his nights, is worthy of all
else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from
the ocean of life deserves to fill his
cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be,
than that which lies in the courage
and the confidence, nay the charity, of
receiving?
And who are you that men should rend
their bosom and unveil their pride,
that you may see their worth naked and
their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to
be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto
life--while you, who deem yourself a
giver, are but a witness.
And you receivers--and you are
all receivers--assume no weight of
gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon
yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on
his gifts as on wings;
For to be overmindful of your debt, is
to doubt his generosity who has the
freehearted earth for mother, and God
for father.
***** *****
Then an old man, a keeper of an
inn, said, Speak to us of _Eating and
Drinking_.
And he said:
Would that you could live on the
fragrance of the earth, and like an air
plant be sustained by the light.
But since you must kill to eat, and rob
the newly born of its mother’s milk to
quench your thirst, let it then be an
act of worship,
And let your board stand an altar on
which the pure and the innocent of
forest and plain are sacrificed for that
which is purer and still more innocent
in man.
*****
When you kill a beast say to him in your
heart,
“By the same power that slays you, I too
am slain; and I too shall be consumed.
For the law that delivered you into
my hand shall deliver me into a mightier
hand.
Your blood and my blood is naught but
the sap that feeds the tree of heaven.”
*****
And when you crush an apple with your
teeth, say to it in your heart,
“Your seeds shall live in my body,
And the buds of your tomorrow shall
blossom in my heart,
And your fragrance shall be my breath,
And together we shall rejoice through
all the seasons.”
*****
And in the autumn, when you gather
the grapes of your vineyards for the
winepress, say in your heart,
“I too am a vineyard, and my fruit shall
be gathered for the winepress,
And like new wine I shall be kept in
eternal vessels.”
And in winter, when you draw the wine,
let there be in your heart a song
for each cup;
And let there be in the song a
remembrance for the autumn days, and for
the vineyard, and for the winepress.
*****
*****
Then a ploughman said, Speak
to us of _Work_.
And he answered, saying:
You work that you may keep pace with the
earth and the soul of the earth.
For to be idle is to become a stranger
unto the seasons, and to step out of
life’s procession, that marches in
majesty and proud submission towards the
infinite.
When you work you are a flute through
whose heart the whispering of the hours
turns to music.
Which of you would be a reed, dumb and
silent, when all else sings together in
unison?
Always you have been told that work is a
curse and labour a misfortune.
But I say to you that when you work you
fulfil a part of earth’s furthest dream,
assigned to you when that dream was
born,
And in keeping yourself with labour you
are in truth loving life,
And to love life through labour is to be
intimate with life’s inmost secret.
*****
But if you in your pain call birth an
affliction and the support of the flesh
a curse written upon your brow, then I
answer that naught but the sweat of
your brow shall wash away that which is
written.
You have been told also that life is
darkness, and in your weariness you echo
what was said by the weary.
And I say that life is indeed darkness
‘save when there is urge,
And all urge is blind save when there is
knowledge,
And all knowledge is vain save when
there is work,
And all work is empty save when there is
love;
And when you work with love you bind
yourself to yourself, and to one
another, and to God.
*****
And what is it to work with love?
It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection,
even as if your beloved were to dwell in
that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and
reap the harvest with joy, even as if
your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion
with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead
are standing about you and watching.
Often have I heard you say, as if
speaking in sleep, “He who works in
marble, and finds the shape of his own
soul in the stone, is nobler than he who
ploughs the soil.
And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the
likeness of man, is more than he who
makes the sandals for our feet.”
But I say, not in sleep but in the
overwakefulness of noontide, that the
wind speaks not more sweetly to the
giant oaks than to the least of all the
blades of grass;
And he alone is great who turns the
voice of the wind into a song made
sweeter by his own loving.
*****
Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love but
only with distaste, it is better that
you should leave your work and sit at
the gate of the temple and take alms of
those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference,
you bake a bitter bread that feeds but
half man’s hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the
grapes, your grudge distils a poison in
the wine.
And if you sing though as
angels, and love not the singing, you
muffle man’s ears to the voices of the
day and the voices of the night.
***** *****
Then a woman said, Speak to us of
_Joy and Sorrow_.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your
laughter rises was oftentimes filled
with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your
being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the
very cup that was burned in the potter’s
oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your
spirit, the very wood that was hollowed
with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your
heart and you shall find it is only
that which has given you sorrow that is
giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in
your heart, and you shall see that
in truth you are weeping for that which
has been your delight.
*****
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than
sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is
the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are
inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits
alone with you at your board, remember
that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales
between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at
standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to
weigh his gold and his silver, needs
must your joy or your sorrow rise or
fall.
***** *****
Then a mason came forth and said,
Speak to us of _Houses_.
And he answered and said:
Build of your imaginings a bower in the
wilderness ere you build a house within
the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in
your twilight, so has the wanderer in
you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the
stillness of the night; and it is not
dreamless. Does not your house dream?
and dreaming, leave the city for grove
or hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses
into my hand, and like a sower scatter
them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and
the green paths your alleys, that you
might seek one another through
vineyards, and come with the fragrance
of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered
you too near together. And that fear
shall endure a little longer. A little
longer shall your city walls separate
your hearths from your fields.
*****
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what
have you in these houses? And what is it
you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that
reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering
arches that span the summits of the
mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart
from things fashioned of wood and stone
to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust
for comfort, that stealthy thing that
enters the house a guest, and then
becomes a host, and then a master?
*****
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with
hook and scourge makes puppets of your
larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart
is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by
your bed and jeer at the dignity of the
flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and
lays them in thistledown like fragile
vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders
the passion of the soul, and then walks
grinning in the funeral.