I Am A Poet Who Composes What

Like The Ocean Is Your God-self; It Remains For Ever Undefiled. And Like The Ether It Lifts But The Winged. Even Like The Sun Is Your God-self; It Knows Not The Ways Of The Mole Nor Seeks It The Holes Of The Serpent. But Your God-self Does Not Dwell Alone In Your Being. Much In You Is Still Man, And Much In You Is Not Yet Man, But A Shapeless Pigmy That Walks Asleep In The Mist Searching For Its Own Awakening.

From A Sensitive Woman's Heart Springs The Happiness Of Mankind, And From The Kindness Of Her Noble Spirit Comes Mankind's Affection.

The Strong Grows In Solitude Where The Weak Withers Away.

Yes, There Is A Nirvanah; It Is Leading Your Sheep To A Green Pasture, And In Putting Your Child To Sleep, And In Writing The Last Line Of Your Poem

Spring Is Beautiful Everywhere, But It Is More Than Beautiful In Lebanon. Spring Is The Spirit Of An Unknown God Speeding Through The World, Which, As It Reaches Lebanon, Pauses, Because Now It Is As At Home With The Souls Of The Prophets And Kings Hovering Over The Land, Chanting With The Brooks Of Judea, The Eternal Psalms Of Solomon, Renewing With The Cedars Of Lebanon Memories Of An Ancient Glory.