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    The Prophet: Premium Ebook
    The Prophet: Premium Ebook
    The Prophet: Premium Ebook
    Ebook69 pages1 hour

    The Prophet: Premium Ebook

    By Khalil Gibran

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    *** Premium Ebook with beautiful layout ***

    "This book has a way of speaking to people at different stages in their lives. It has this magical quality, the more you read it the more you come to understand the words," Reverend Laurie Sue

    Written by one of the world's bestselling poets, The Prophet, since it was first published in 1923, has been translated into more than 50 languages. Made up of 26 prose poems, delivered as sermons by a wise man called Al Mustapha, The Prophet is a timeless poetic story, a great book of wisdom.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFV Éditions
    Release dateFeb 6, 2019
    ISBN9791029906930
    The Prophet: Premium Ebook

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      Book preview

      The Prophet - Khalil Gibran

      The Coming Of The Ship

      Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn onto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.

      And in the twelfth year, on the seventh day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward; and he beheld the ship coming with the mist.

      Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.

      But he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart: How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.

      Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?

      Too many fragments of the spirit have I scatterd in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a bruden and an ache.

      It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.

      Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.

      Yet I cannot tarry longer.

      The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.

      For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.

      Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?

      A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

      And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

      Now when he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon her prow the mariners, the men of his own land.

      And his soul cried out to them, and he said:

      Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides, How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.

      Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

      Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,

      Then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.

      And you, vast sea, sleepless mother,

      Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,

      Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,

      And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

      And as he walked he saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.

      And he heard their voices calling his name, and shouting from the field to field telling one another of the coming of the ship.

      And he said to himself:

      Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?

      And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?

      And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in midfurrow, or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?

      Shall

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