“By that tomb grows Gibran's sorrow together with the cypress trees, and above the tomb his spirit flickers every night commemorating Selma, joining the branches of the trees in sorrowful wailing, mourning and lamenting the going of Selma, who, yesterday was a beautiful tune on the lips of life and today is a silent secret in the bosom of the earth.
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Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow. Solitude is the ally of sorrow as well as a companion of spiritual exaltation.
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He lives spiritually in the past because the present passes swiftly, and the future seems to him an approach to the oblivion of the grave.
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Now I know that there is something higher than heaven and deeper than the ocean and stranger than life and death and time. I know now what I did not know before.
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When I walked in the fields, I saw the token of Eternity in the awakening of nature, and when I sat by the seashore I heard the waves singing the song of Eternity.
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We were three people, gathered and crushed by the hands of destiny; and all of us were toys in the hands of fate.
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Be happy because I shall live in you after my death.
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This is the only friend I shall have after you are gone, but how can he console me when he is suffering also? How can a broken heart find consolation in a disappointed soul? A sorrowful woman cannot be comforted by her neighbour's sorrow, nor can a bird fly with broken wings.
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It is hard to write down in words the memories of those hours when I met Selma −−those heavenly hours, filled with pain, happiness, sorrow, hope, and misery.
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A bird with broken wings cannot fly in the spacious sky.
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He was born like a thought and died like a sigh and disappeared like a shadow.
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His life began at the end of the night and ended at the beginning of the day.”