Thursday, July 19, 2012

Song of the Soul

Kahlil Gibran

In the depth of my soul there is
A wordless song - a song that lives
In the seed of my heart.
It refuses to melt with ink on
Parchment; it engulfs my affection
In a transparent cloak and flows,
But not upon my lips. 

How can I sigh it? I fear it may
Mingle with earthly ether;
To whom shall I sing it? It dwells
In the house of my soul, in fear of
Harsh ears. 

When I look into my inner eyes
I see the shadow of its shadow;
When I touch my fingertips
I feel its vibrations. 

The deeds of my hands heed its
Presence as a lake must reflect
The glittering stars; my tears
Reveal it, as bright drops of dew
Reveal the secret of a withering rose. 

It is a song composed by contemplation,
And published by silence,
And shunned by clamor,
And folded by truth,
And repeated by dreams,
And understood by love,
And hidden by awakening,
And sung by the soul.

It is the song of love;
What Cain or Esau could sing it?

It is more fragrant than jasmine;
What voice could enslave it?

It is heartbound, as a virgin's secret;
What string could quiver it?

Who dares unite the roar of the sea
And the singing of the nightingale?
Who dares compare the shrieking tempest
To the sigh of an infant?
Who dares speak aloud the words
Intended for the heart to speak?
What human dares sing in voice
The song of God?

The bird has an honor that man does not have. Man
lives in the traps of his abdicated laws and
traditions; but the birds live according to the
natural law of God who causes the earth to turn around the sun.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Garden Sculptures and Sculptor Quotes

Genius is eternal patience.
 A beautiful thing never gives so much pain as does failing to hear and see it.

Every beauty which is seen here by persons of perception resembles more than anything else that celestial source from which we all are come.

 My soul can find no staircase to Heaven unless it be through Earth's loveliness.

Death and love are the two wings that bear the good man to heaven.

  Auguste Rodin

   Art is contemplation. It is the pleasure of the mind which searches into nature and which there divines the spirit of which Nature herself is animated. 

  The artist is the confidant of nature, flowers carry on dialogues with him through the graceful bending of their stems and the harmoniously tinted nuances of their blossoms, Every flower has a cordial word which nature directs towards him.

 There are unknown forces in nature; when we give ourselves wholly to her, without reserve, she lends them to us; she shows us these forms, which our watching eyes do not see, which our intelligence does not understand or suspect.