The Prophet

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

It is life in quest of life in bodies that fear the grave. There are no graves here. These mountains and plains are a cradle and a stepping-stone.

Your daily life is your temple and your religion. Whenever you enter into it take with you your all.

Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars, sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows — then let your heart say in silence, “God rests in reason.” And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest, and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky, — then let your heart say in awe,

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts; And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime. And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered. For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.

Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves, and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters.

Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.

In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains, though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle your eyes.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.