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<strong>SAND AND FOAM(first part)</strong>I am forever walking upon these shores,
Betwixt the sand and the foam,
The high tide will erase my foot-prints,
And the wind will blow away the foam.
But the sea and the shore will remain
Forever.
Once I filled my hand with mist.
Then I ope and lo, the mist was a worm.
And I closed and opened my hand again, and behold there was a bird.
And again I closed and opened my hand, and in its hollow stood a man with a sad face, turned upward.
And again I closed my hand, and when I ope there was naught but mist.
But I heard a song of exceeding sweetness.
It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life.
Now I know that I am the sphere, and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.
They say to me in their awakening, "You and the world you live i a grain of sand upon the infinite shore of an infinite sea."
And in my dream I say to them, "I am the infinite sea, and all worlds are but grains of sand upon my shore."
Only once have I been made mute. It was when a man asked me, "Who are you?"
The first thought of God was an angel.
The first word of God was a man.
We were fluttering, wandering, longing creatures a thousand thousand years before the sea and the wind in the forest gave us words.
Now how we express the a of days in us with only the sounds of our yesterdays?
The Sphinx spoke only once, and the Sphinx said, "A grain of sand is a desert, and a desert is a grain of sand; and now let us all be silent again."
I heard the Sphinx, but I did not uand.
Long did I lie in the dust of Egypt, silent and unaware of the seasons.
Then the sun gave me birth, and I rose and walked upon the banks of the Nile,
Singing with the days and dreaming with the nights.
And now the sun threads upoh a thousahat I may lie again in the dust of Egypt.
But behold a marvel and a riddle!
The very sun that gathered me ot scatter me.
Still erect am I, and sure of foot do I walk upon the banks of the Nile.
Remembrance is a formbbr></abbr> of meeting.
Fetfulness is a form of freedom.
We measure time acc to the movement of tless suns; and they measure time by little maes in their little pockets.
Now tell me, how could we ever meet at the same plad the same time?
Space is not space between the earth and the sun to one who looks down from the windows of the Milky Way.
Humanity is a river of light running from the ex-eternity to eternity.
Do not the spirits who dwell iher envy man his pain?
On my way to the Holy City I met another pilgrim and I asked him, "Is this ihe way to the Holy City?"
And he said, "Follow me, and you will reach the Holy City in a day and a night."
And I followed him. And we walked many days and many nights, yet we did not reach the Holy City.
And what was to my surprise he <tt></tt>became angry with me because he had misled me.
Make me, oh God, the prey of the lion, ere You make the rabbit my prey.
One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.
My house says to me, "Do not leave me, for here dwells your past."
And the road says to me, "e and follow me, for I am your future."
And I say to both my house and the road, "I have no past, nor have I a future. If I stay here, there is a going in my staying; and if I go there is a staying in my going. Only love ah will ge all things."
How I lose faith in the justice of life, when the dreams of those who sleep upohers are not more beautiful than the dreams of those who sleep upon the earth? Strahe desire for certain pleasures is a part of my pain.
Seven times have I despised my soul:
The first time when I saw her beihat she might attai.
The sed time when I saw her limping before the crippled.
The third time when she was given to choose between the hard and the easy, and she chose the easy.
The fourth time when she itted a wrong, and forted herself that others also it wrong.
The fifth time when she forbore for weakness, and attributed her patieth.
The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own masks.
And the seventh time when she sang a song of praise, and deemed it a virtue.
I am ignorant of absolute truth. But I am humble before my ignorand therein lies my honour and my reward.
There is a space between mans imagination and mans attaihat may only be traversed by his longing.
Paradise is there, behind that door, in the room; but I have lost the key.
Perhaps I have only mislaid it.
You are blind and I am deaf and dumb, so let us touch hands and uand.
The signifian is not in what he attains, but rather in what he longs to attain.
Some of us are like ink and some like paper.
And if it were not for the blaess of some of us, some of us would be dumb;
And if it were not for the whiteness of some of us, some of us would be blind.
Give me an ear and I will give you a voice.
Our mind is a sponge; our heart is a stream.
Is it not strahat most of us choose sug rather than running?
When you long for blessings that you may not name, and when you grieve knowing not the cause, then indeed yrowing with all things that grow, and rising toward yreater self.
When one is drunk with a vision, he deems his faint expression of it the very wine.
You drink wihat you may be intoxicated; and I drink that it may sober me from that other wine.
When my cup is empty I resi>?９9lｉｂ?</a>gn myself to its emptiness; but when it is half full I resent its half-fullness.
The reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you, but in what he ot reveal to you.
Therefore, if you would uand him, listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say.
Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.
A sense of humour is a sense of proportion.
My loneliness was born when men praised my talkative faults and blamed my silent virtues.
When Life does not find a sio sing her heart she produces a philosopher to speak her mind.
A truth is to be known always, to be uttered sometimes.
The real in us is silent; the acquired is talkative.
The voice of life in me ot reach the ear of life in you; but let us talk that we may not feel lonely.
When two women talk they say nothing; when one eaks she reveals all of life.
Frogs may bellow louder than bulls, but they the plough in the field not turn the wheel of the winepress, and of their skins you ake shoes.
Only the dumb envy the talkative.
If winter should say, "Spring is in my heart," who would believe winter?
Every seed is a longing.
Should you really open your eyes and see, you would behold your image in all images.
And should you open your ears and listen, you would hear your own voi all voices.
It takes two of us to discover truth: oo utter it and oo uand it.
Though the wave of words is forever upon us, yet our depth is forever silent.
Many a doe is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth.
Now let us play hide and seek. Should you hide in my heart it would not be difficult to find you. But should you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless for ao seek you. A woman may veil her face with a smile.
How noble is the sad heart who would sing a joyous song with joyous hearts.
He who would uand a woman, or dissect genius, or solve the mystery of silence is the very man who would wake from a beautiful dream to sit at a breakfast table.
I would walk with all those who walk. I would not stand still to watch the procession passing by.
You owe more than gold to him who serves you. Give him of your heart or serve him.
Nay, we have not lived in vain. Have they not built towers of our bones?
Let us not be particular aional. The poets mind and the scorpions tail rise in glory from the same earth.
Every dragon gives birth to a St. Gee who slays it.
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness.
Should you care to write (and only the saints know why you should) you must needs have knowledge and art and music -- the knowledge of the music of words, the art of being artless, and the magic of loving your readers.
They dip their pens in our hearts and think they are inspired.
Should a tree write its autobiography it would not be uhe history of a race.
If I were to choose between the power of writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten, I would choose the ecstasy. It is better poetry.
But you and all my neighbree that I always choose badly.
Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth.
Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness.
A poet is a dethroned king sitting among the ashes of his palace trying to fashion an image out of the ashes.
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the diary.
In vain shall a poet seek the mother of the songs of his heart.
Once I said to a poet, "We shall not know your worth until you die."
And he answered saying, "Yes, death is always the revealer. And if indeed you would know my worth it is that I have more in my heart than upon my tongue, and more in my desire than in my hand."
If you sing of beauty though alone in the heart of the desert you will have an audience.
Poetry is wisdom that ents the heart.
Wisdom is poetry that sings in the mind.
If we could ent ma and at the same time sing in his mind,
Then in truth he would live in the shadow of God.
Inspiration will always sing; inspiration will never explain.
We often sing lullabies to our children that we ourselves may sleep.
All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.
Thinking is always the stumbling stoo poetry.
A great singer is he who sings our silences.
How you sing if your mouth be filled with food?
How shall your hand be raised in blessing if it is filled with gold?
They say the nightingale pierces his bosom with a thorn when he sings his love song.
So do we all. How else should we sing?
Genius is but a robins song at the beginning of a slow spring.
Even the most winged spirit ot escape physiecessity.
A madman is not less a musi than you or myself; only the instrument on which he plays is a little out of tune.
The song that lies silent in the heart of a mother sings upon the lips of her child.
No longing remains unfulfilled.
I have never agreed with my other self wholly. The truth of the matter seems to lie between us.
Your other self is always sorry for you. But your other self grows on sorrow; so all is well.
There is nle of soul and body save in the minds of those whose souls are asleep and whose bodies are out of tune.
When you reach the heart of life you shall fiy in all things, even in the eyes that are blind to beauty.
We live only to discover beauty. All else is a form of waiting.
Sow a seed and the earth will yield you a flower. Dream your dream to the sky and it will bring you your beloved.
The devil died the very day you were born.
Now you do not have to gh hell to meet an angel.
Many a woman borrows a ma; very few could possess it.
If you would possess you must not claim.
When a mans hand touches the hand of a woman they both touch the heart of eternity.
Love is the veil between lover and lover.
Every man loves two women; the one is the creation of his imagination, and the other is not yet born.
Men who do not five women their little faults will never enjoy their great virtues.
Love that does not reself every day bees a habit and in turn a slavery.
Lovers embrace that which is between them rather than each other.
Love and doubt have never been on speaking terms.
Love is a word of light, written by a hand of light, upon a page of light.
Friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.
If you do not uand your friend under all ditions you will never uand him.
Your most radiant garment is of the other persons weaving;
You most savoury meal is that which you eat at the other persons table;
Your most fortable bed is iher persons house.
Now tell me, how you separate yourself from the other person?
Your mind and my heart will never agree until your mind ceases to live in numbers and my heart in the mist.
We shall never uand one another until we reduce the language to seven words.
How shall my heart be unsealed unless it be broken?
Only great sorrreat joy reveal your truth.
If you would be revealed you must either danaked in the sun, or carry your cross.
Should nature heed what we say of te no river would seek the sea, and no winter would turn t. Should she heed all we say of thrift, how many of us would be breathing this air?
You see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.
You are free before the sun of the day, and free before the stars of the night;
And you are free when there is no sun and no moon and no star.
You are even free when you close your eyes upon all there is.
But you are a slave to him whom you love because you love him,
And a slave to him who loves you because he loves you.
We are all beggars at the gate of the temple, and eae of us receives his share of the bounty of the King wheers the temple, and when he goes out.
But we are all jealous of one another, which is another way of belittling the King.
You ot e beyond your appetite. The other half of the loaf belongs to the other person, and there should remain a little bread for the ce guest.
If it were not for yuests all houses would be graves.
Said a gracious wolf to a simple sheep, "Will you not honour our house with a visit?"
And the sheep answered, "We would have been hoo visit your house if it were not in your stomach."
I stopped my guest ohreshold and said, "Nay, wipe not your feet as you enter, but as you go out."
Generosity is not in givihat which I need more than you do, but it is in givihat which you need more than I do.
You are indeed charitable when you give, and while giving, turn your face away so that you may not see the shyness of the receiver.
The differeween the richest man and the poorest is but a day of hunger and an hour of thirst.
We often borrow from our tomorrows to pay our debts to our yesterdays.
I too am visited by angels and devils, but I get rid of them.
When it is an angel I pray an old prayer, and he is bored;
When it is a devil I it an old sin, and he passes me by.
After all this is not a bad prison; but I do not like this wall between my cell and the prisoners cell;
Yet I assure you that I do not wish to reproach the warder not the Builder of the prison.
Those who give you a serpent when you ask for a fish, may have nothing but serpents to give. It is then generosity on their part.
Trickery succeeds sometimes, but it always its suicide.
You are truly a fiver when you five murderers who never spill blood, thieves who eal, and liars who utter no falsehood.
He who put his finger upon that which divides good from evil is he who touch the very hem of the garment of God.
If your heart is a volo how shall you expect flowers to bloom in your hands?
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