Gibran Stories Omnibus

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

Kahlil Gibran
         
     
     This page formatted 2005 Munsey's.
     
     
http://www.munseys.com
     
     
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
----
This eBook was produced by: Stuart kidd
Original file Courtesy of Kahlil Gibran Online—www.kahlil.org

THE FORERUNNER
         
      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