The Prophet

What if you had one chance to ask a wise prophet about life’s greatest mysteries? In Kahlil Gibran's timeless masterpiece, the people of Orphalese do just that. As the prophet Almustafa prepares to depart, he shares his profound wisdom on love, marriage, joy, sorrow, and freedom. For generations, this collection of poetic essays has served as a spiritual companion for those seeking truth, comfort, and a deeper connection to the human experience. Open these pages and discover the words that have enlightened millions.

What is Read Between The Lines?

Read Between the Lines: Your Ultimate Book Summary Podcast
Dive deep into the heart of every great book without committing to hundreds of pages. Read Between the Lines delivers insightful, concise summaries of must-read books across all genres. Whether you're a busy professional, a curious student, or just looking for your next literary adventure, we cut through the noise to bring you the core ideas, pivotal plot points, and lasting takeaways.

Welcome to our summary of Kahlil Gibran’s timeless classic, The Prophet. This masterpiece of prose poetry offers profound spiritual guidance on the essential aspects of human existence. The book follows the prophet Almustafa who, on the eve of his departure from the city of Orphalese, is asked by its people to share his wisdom. Through a series of lyrical sermons, he imparts insights on topics ranging from love and marriage to work and death. Gibran’s work serves as a universal meditation on life, delivered with a gentle, poetic elegance that has captivated readers for generations.
The Coming of the Ship
Almustafa, the chosen and the beloved, who was a dawn unto his own day, had waited twelve years in the city of Orphalese for the 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 his 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 as 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 scattered 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 burden 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. 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 gave it wings.

And as he reached the foot of the hill, he turned again towards the sea, and he saw his ship approaching the harbour, and upon its prow the mariners, the men of his own land. And his soul cried out to them: Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides, how often have you sailed in my dreams. 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, and then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.
The People's Plea
As he walked towards the city, the men and women of Orphalese left their fields and their vineyards, and hastened to the great square before the temple. For a whisper had passed from heart to heart among them, a rumor born of their collective soul, telling of the coming of his ship. They came not only to see him go, but to ask that he not depart before giving them of his truth, that it might be a light for their children’s children.

And they stood about him, a silent multitude, their eyes a testament to twelve years of love. The elders of the city came forth and stood before him, and the priests and priestesses in their white robes. There was a sorrow in their faces, yet also a deep peace, for they knew that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

Then Almitra, the seeress who had first believed in him, stepped forth. And she said, “Prophet of God, in quest of the uttermost, you have long watched for your ship. And now your ship has come, and you must needs go. Deep is your longing for the land of your memories; and our love would not bind you, nor would our needs hold you. Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us and give us of your truth. And we will give it to our children, and they to their children, and it shall not perish. In your aloneness you have watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep. Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death.”

And he answered, “People of Orphalese, of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving within your souls?”
The Discourses: Wisdom on Life
Then Almitra said, “Speak to us of Love.”

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

“When love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you, yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. For even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning.

He shall thresh you to make you naked. He shall sift you to free you from your husks. He shall grind you to whiteness. He shall knead you until you are pliant; and then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; for love is sufficient unto love. And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: to melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night; to know the pain of too much tenderness; to be wounded by your own understanding of love; and to bleed willingly and joyfully; to wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; and then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.”

Then a man and a woman who were to be wedded came forth, and he said, “Speak to us of Marriage.”

And he answered, saying: “You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore. But let there be spaces in your togetherness, and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: for the pillars of the temple stand apart, and the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, “Speak to us of Children.”

And he said: “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness; for even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

Then a rich man said, “Speak to us of Giving.”

And he answered: “You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. For what are your possessions but things you guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? Is not dread of need but need itself? There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition, making their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding. For to the open-handed, the search for one who shall receive is a joy greater than giving. All you have shall some day be given; therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’. You often say, ‘I would give, but only to the deserving.’ The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.”

And a ploughman said, “Speak to us of Work.”

And he answered, saying: “You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth. When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music. Work is love made visible. If you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy. For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man’s hunger. And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distills a poison in the wine.”

Then a woman spoke, saying, “Speak to us of Joy and of Sorrow.”

And he answered: “Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”

And a judge of the city stepped forth and said, “Speak to us of Crime and Punishment.”

And he answered, saying: “It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind that you, alone and unguarded, commit a wrong unto others and therefore unto yourself. The wronged and the wrongdoer may seem separate, but they are not. They are but one, standing before the sun of your larger self. The murdered is not unaccountable for his own murder, and the robbed is not blameless in being robbed. The righteous is not innocent of the deeds of the wicked. For the white-handed is not clean in the doings of the felon. Even as the single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree, so the wrongdoer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all. You cannot separate the just from the unjust and the good from the wicked; for they stand together before the face of the sun even as the black thread and the white thread are woven together.”

Then a lawyer said, “But what of our Laws, master?”

And he answered: “You delight in laying down laws, yet you delight more in breaking them. Like children playing by the ocean who build sand-towers and then destroy them with laughter. What are your laws but cages you have built? I say that you cannot bind the boundless spirit. If you would imprison a man, remember that the walls you build will imprison your own soul as well.”

And an orator said, “Speak to us of Freedom.”

And he answered: “At the gates of the city and by your fireside I have seen you worship your own freedom, even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant. You can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfillment. You shall be free indeed not when your days are without a care nor your nights without a grief, but rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound. For the chains that bind you are of your own making, fragments of yourself you have chosen to discard.”

Then Almitra spoke again, saying, “We would ask now of Reason and Passion.”

And he said: “Your soul is a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against your passion and your appetite. Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul. If either be broken, you can but toss and drift. For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction. Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion, that it may sing. And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes.”

Then an old man said, “Speak to us of Pain.”

And he answered: “Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility: For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen.”

And a youth said, “Speak to us of Friendship.”

And he answered, saying: “Your friend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. He is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the ‘nay’ in your own mind, nor do you withhold the ‘ay.’ Let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.”

And an astronomer said, “Master, what of Time?”

And he answered: “You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable. You would adjust your conduct according to hours and seasons, making of time a stream to watch. Yet the timeless in you is aware of life’s timelessness, and knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream. And that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space. And is not time even as love is, undivided and spaceless?”

Then an elder of the city said, “Speak to us of Good and Evil.”

And he answered: “Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil. For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst? You are good when you are one with yourself. Yet when you are not one with yourself you are not evil, for a divided house is not a den of thieves; it is only a divided house. You are good when you strive to give of yourself, and when you walk to your goal firmly and with bold steps. Yet you are not evil when you go thither limping.”

And now it was evening. And Almitra, the seeress, spoke for the last time, saying, “And what of Death, master?”

And he answered: “You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; and like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.”
The Farewell
When he had ceased speaking, a great cry of love and sorrow arose from the people, yet he silenced them with a gesture. He walked through their midst to the shore, and he found his ship ready and the mariners waiting.

He looked once more upon the people, and upon the city of Orphalese, and his heart was full. He raised his voice again, and it carried over the water like a blessing. “Forget not that I shall come back to you. A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me. Farewell to you, people of Orphalese. The truths I have spoken are but half-truths, for the vaster truth remains unspoken within you. It is that which you know in silence. Seek it, and you shall find it.”

He then walked to the mariners and they raised the anchor and unfurled the sails. He stood alone upon the deck of the ship as it moved away from the shore. And he cried:

“People of Orphalese, if this is a day of parting, let it also be a day of memory. Remember me not as one who gave you counsel, but as a traveler who shared his bread with you. Remember me as a beginning. For that which seems to die is but the setting of a sun, which is also a dawning.”

He blessed them one last time, a silent benediction that lingered in the twilight air. The people of Orphalese remained upon the sea-wall, their gaze fixed upon the ship until it was swallowed by the mist. They turned and went to their homes, and each felt the Prophet’s words stirring within them, for they knew that his wisdom was a seed planted, which they themselves must now tend and bring to blossom.
As Almustafa boards his ship, his final departure is not an end but a poignant transition. He leaves the people of Orphalese with the ultimate understanding that the spirit is eternal and that his teachings will remain with them always. The core resolution is this legacy of wisdom; his words on finding freedom in work, joy in sorrow, and the divine in everyday life are left to resonate within their hearts. This act of leaving solidifies his message that love knows no separation and that life and death are inseparable. The Prophet's enduring importance lies in its ability to deliver universal truths through beautifully simple yet deeply resonant prose, offering a guide to navigating life’s journey with grace and purpose. Thank you for joining us. If you found this insightful, please like and subscribe for more content like this. We’ll see you in our next episode.