The Farewell

Kahlil Gibran 1883 (Bsharri, Mount Lebanon Mutasarrifate) – 1931 ( New York City)

And now it was evening.
     And Almitra the seeress said, Blessed be this day and this place and your spirit that has spoken.
     And he answered, Was it I who spoke? Was I not also a listener?

     Then he descended the steps of the Temple and all the people followed him. And he reached his ship and stood upon the deck.
     And facing the people again, he raised his voice and said:
     People of Orphalese, the wind bids me leave you.
     Less hasty am I than the wind, yet I must go.
     We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
     Even while the earth sleeps we travel.
     We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.

     Brief were my days among you, and briefer still the words I have spoken. But should my voice fade in your ears, and my love vanish in you memory, then I will come again,
     And with a richer heart and lips more yielding to the spirit will I speak.
     Yea, I shall return with the tide,
     And though death may hide me, and the greater silence enfold me, yet again will I seek your understanding.
     And not in vain will I seek.
     It aught I have said is truth, that truth shall reveal itself in a clearer voice, and in words more kin to your thoughts.

     I go with the wind, people of Orphalese, but not down into emptiness;
     And if this day is not a fulfilment of your needs and my love, then let it be a promise till another day.
     Man’s needs change, but not his love, nor his desire that his love should satisfy his needs.
     Know therefore, that from the greater silence I shall return.
     The mist that drifts away at dawn, leaving but dew in the fields, shall rise and gather into a cloud and then fall down in rain.
     And not unlike the mist have I been.
     In the stillness of the night I have walked in your streets, and my spirit has entered your houses,
     And your heart-beats were in my heart, and your breath was upon my face, and I knew you all.
     Ay, I knew your joy and your pain, and in your sleep your dreams were my dreams.
     And oftentimes I was among you a lake among the mountains.
     I mirrored the summits in you and the bending slopes, and even the passing flocks of your thoughts and your desires.
     And to my silence came the laughter of your children in streams, and the longing of your youths in rivers.
     And when they reached my depth the streams and the rivers ceased not yet to sing.

     But sweeter still than laughter and greater than longing came to me.
     It was the boundless in you;
     The vast man in whom you are all but cells and sinews;
     He in whose chant all your singing is but a soundless throbbing.
     It is in the vast man that you are vast,
     And in beholding him that I beheld you and loved you.
     For what distances can love reach that are not in that vast sphere?
     What visions, what expectations and what presumptions can outsoar that flight?
     Like a giant oak tree covered with apple blossoms in the vast man in you.
     His might binds you to the earth, his fragrance lifts you into space, and in his durability you are deathless.

     You have been told that, even like a chain, you are as weak as your weakest link.
     This is but half the truth. You are also as strong as your strongest link.
     To measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of ocean by the frailty of its foam.
     To judge you by your failures is to cast blame upon the seasons for their inconstancy.

     Ay, you are like an ocean,
     And though heavy-grounded ships await the tide upon your shoes, yet, even like an ocean, you cannot hasten your tides.
     And like the seasons you are also,
     And though in your winter you deny your spring,
     Yet spring, reposing within you, smiles in her drowsiness and is not offended.
     Think not I say these things are in order that you may say the one to the other, “He praised us well. He saw but the good in us.”
     I only speak to you in words of that which you yourselves know in thought.
     And what is word knowledge but a shadow of wordless knowledge?
     Your thoughts and my words are waves from a sealed memory that keeps records of our yesterdays,
     And of the ancient days when the earth knew not us nor herself,
     And of nights when earth was upwrought with confusion.

     Wise men have come to you to give you of their wisdom. I came to take of your wisdom:
     And behold I have found that which is greater than wisdom.
     It is a flame spirit in you ever gathering more of itself,
     While you, heedless of its expansion, bewail the withering of your days.
     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.
     Whenever you pass by the field where you have laid your ancestors look well thereupon, and you shall see yourselves and your children dancing hand in hand.
     Verily you often make merry without knowing.

     Others have come to you to whom for golden promises made unto your faith you have given but riches and power and glory.
     Less than a promise have I given, and yet more generous have you been to me.
     You have given me my deeper thirsting after life.
     Surely there is no greater gift to a man than that which turns all this aims into parching lips and all life into a fountain.
     And in this lies my honour 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.

     Some of you have deemed me proud and over-shy to receive gifts.
     Too proud indeed am I to receive wages, but not gifts.
     And though I have eaten berries among the hills when you would have had me sit at your board,
     And slept in the portico of the temple when you would gladly have sheltered me,
     Yet was it not your loving mindfulness of my days and my nights that made food sweet to my mouth and girdled my sleep with visions?

     For this I bless you most:
     You give much and know not that you give at all.
     Verily the kindness that gazes upon itself in a mirror turns to stone,
     And a good deed that calls itself by tender names becomes the parent to a curse.

     And some of you have called me aloof, and drunk with my own aloneness,
     And you have said, “He holds council with the trees of the forest but not with men.”
     He sits alone on hill-tops and looks down upon our city.”
     True it is that I have climbed the hills and walked in remote places.
     How could I have seen you save from a great height or a great distance?
     How can one be indeed near unless he be far?

     And others among you called unto me, not in words, and they said,
     “Stranger, stranger, lover of unreachable heights, why dwell you among the summits where eagles build their nests?
     Why seek you the unattainable?
     What storms would you trap in your net,
     And what vaporous birds do you hunt in the sky?
     Come and be one of us.
     Descend and appease your hunger with our bread and quench your thirst with our wine.”
     In the solitude of their souls they said these things;
     But were their solitude deeper they would have known that I sought but the secret of your joy and your pain,
     And I hunted only your larger selves that walk the sky.

     But the hunter was also the hunted;
     For many of my arrows left my bow only to seek my own breast.
     And the flier was also the creeper;
     For when my wings were spread in the sun their shadow upon the earth was a turtle.
     And I the believer was also the doubter;
     For often have I put my finger in my own wound that I might have the greater belief in you and the greater knowledge of you.

     And it is with this belief and this knowledge that I say,
     You are not enclosed within your bodies, nor confined to houses or fields.
     That which is you dwells above the mountain and roves with the wind.
     It is not a thing that crawls into the sun for warmth or digs holes into darkness for safety,
     But a thing free, a spirit that envelopes the earth and moves in the ether.

     If these be vague words, then seek not to clear them.
     Vague and nebulous is the beginning of all things, but not their end,
     And I fain would have you remember me as a beginning.
     Life, and all that lives, is conceived in the mist and not in the crystal.
     And who knows but a crystal is mist in decay?

     This would I have you remember in remembering me:
     That which seems most feeble and bewildered in you is the strongest and most determined.
     Is it not your breath that has erected and hardened the structure of your bones?
     And is it not a dream which none of you remember having dreamt, that builded your city and fashioned all there is in it?
     Could you but see the tides of that breath you would cease to see all else,
     And if you could hear the whispering of the dream you would hear no other sound.

     But you do not see, nor do you hear, and it is well.
     The veil that clouds your eyes shall be lifted by the hands that wove it,
     And the clay that fills your ears shall be pierced by those fingers that kneaded it.
     And you shall see
     And you shall hear.
     Yet you shall not deplore having known blindness, nor regret having been deaf.
     For in that day you shall know the hidden purposes in all things,
     And you shall bless darkness as you would bless light.

    After saying these things he looked about him, and he saw the pilot of his ship standing by the helm and gazing now at the full sails and now at the distance.
     And he said:
     Patient, over patient, is the captain of my ship.
     The wind blows, and restless are the sails;
     Even the rudder begs direction;
     Yet quietly my captain awaits my silence.
     And these my mariners, who have heard the choir of the greater sea, they too have heard me patiently.
     Now they shall wait no longer.
     I am ready.
     The stream has reached the sea, and once more the great mother holds her son against her breast.

     Fare you well, people of Orphalese.
     This day has ended.
     It is closing upon us even as the waterlily upon its own tomorrow
     What was given us here we shall keep,
     And it if suffices not, then again must we come together and together stretch our hands unto the giver.
     Forget not that I shall come back to you.
     A little while, and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body.
     A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.

     Farewell to you and the youth I have spent with you.
     It was but yesterday we met in a dream.
     You have sung to me in my aloneness, and I of your longings have built a tower in the sky.
     But now our sleep has fled and our dream is over, and it is no longer dawn.
     The noontide is upon us and our half waking has turned to fuller day, and we must part.
     If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song.
     And if our hands should meet in another dream we shall build another tower in the sky.

     So saying he made a signal to the seamen, and straightway they weighed anchor and cast the ship loose from its moorings, and they moved eastward.
     And a cry came from the people as form a single heart, and it rose into the dusk and was carried our over the sea like a great trumpeting.
     Only Almitra was silent, gazing after the ship until it had vanished into the mist.
     And when all the people were dispersed she still stood alone upon the sea-wall, remembering in her heart his saying,

     “A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.”
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Submitted by halel on July 13, 2020

Modified on May 02, 2023

10:57 min read

Quick analysis:

Scheme abc xdefghi jkxakx glxxmxnoxpqqa regaxexseg ttxr bxfaugxxvwb xxwvx yzxa rrxb1 r2 3 3 1 rp xozx gjrn4 x dxhx5 gx6 m5 u7 chce lxxrc xxahl rxx2 xx x2 2 ryx6 s 4 dxXb4 rcr7 gufxcErr ex5 xxx5 iaxa r
Characters 11,897
Words 2,188
Stanzas 24
Stanza Lengths 3, 7, 6, 13, 10, 4, 11, 5, 4, 7, 5, 4, 6, 10, 6, 5, 5, 6, 8, 10, 8, 7, 4, 1

Kahlil Gibran

Gibran Khalil Gibran (Arabic: جبران خليل جبران‎, ALA-LC: Jubrān Khalīl Jubrān, pronounced [ʒʊˈbraːn xaˈliːl ʒʊˈbraːn], or Jibrān Khalīl Jibrān, pronounced [ʒɪˈbraːn xaˈliːl ʒɪˈbraːn]; January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931), usually referred to in English as Kahlil Gibran (pronounced kah-LEEL ji-BRAHN), was a Lebanese-American writer, poet and visual artist, also considered a philosopher although he himself rejected the title. He is best known as the author of The Prophet, which was first published in the United States in 1923 and has since become one of the best-selling books of all time, having been translated into more than 100 languages. Born in a village of the Ottoman-ruled Mount Lebanon Mutasarrifate to a Maronite family, the young Gibran immigrated with his mother and siblings to the United States in 1895. As his mother worked as a seamstress, he was enrolled at a school in Boston, where his creative abilities were quickly noticed by a teacher who presented him to photographer and publisher F. Holland Day. Gibran was sent back to his native land by his family at the age of fifteen to enroll at the Collège de la Sagesse in Beirut. Returning to Boston upon his youngest sister's death in 1902, he lost his older half-brother and his mother the following year, seemingly relying afterwards on his remaining sister's income from her work at a dressmaker's shop for some time. In 1904, Gibran's drawings were displayed for the first time at Day's studio in Boston, and his first book in Arabic was published in 1905 in New York City. With the financial help of a newly met benefactress, Mary Haskell, Gibran studied art in Paris from 1908 to 1910. While there, he came in contact with Syrian political thinkers promoting rebellion in the Ottoman Empire after the Young Turk Revolution; some of Gibran's writings, voicing the same ideas as well as anti-clericalism, would eventually be banned by the Ottoman authorities. In 1911, Gibran settled in New York, where his first book in English, The Madman, would be published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1918, with writing of The Prophet or The Earth Gods also underway. His visual artwork was shown at Montross Gallery in 1914, and at the galleries of M. Knoedler & Co. in 1917. He had also been corresponding remarkably with May Ziadeh since 1912. In 1920, Gibran re-founded the Pen League with fellow Mahjari poets. By the time of his death at the age of 48 from cirrhosis and incipient tuberculosis in one lung, he had achieved literary fame on "both sides of the Atlantic Ocean," and The Prophet had already been translated into German and French. His body was transferred to his birth village of Bsharri (in present-day Lebanon), to which he had bequeathed all future royalties on his books, and where a museum dedicated to his works now stands. As worded by Suheil Bushrui and Joe Jenkins, Gibran's life has been described as one "often caught between Nietzschean rebellion, Blakean pantheism and Sufi mysticism." Gibran discussed different themes in his writings, and explored diverse literary forms. Salma Khadra Jayyusi has called him "the single most important influence on Arabic poetry and literature during the first half of [the twentieth] century," and he is still celebrated as a literary hero in Lebanon. At the same time, "most of Gibran's paintings expressed his personal vision, incorporating spiritual and mythological symbolism," with art critic Alice Raphael recognizing in the painter a classicist, whose work owed "more to the findings of Da Vinci than it [did] to any modern insurgent." His "prodigious body of work" has been described as "an artistic legacy to people of all nations."  more…

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