Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide. And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech. The aggrieved and the injured say, Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us. And the passionate say, nay, Beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest, she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us. The tired and the weary say, Beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow. But the restless say, we have heard her shouting among the mountains. And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions. At night, the watchmen of the city say, Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east. Gibran K.