(181) Silence is this horse of wood, This Silence which causes you annoyance You say, "How strange the spiritual man is silent!" He answers, "How strange you have no ears! Though I utter cries, you hear them not; Sensual ears, however sharp, are deaf to my cries." The spiritual man, as it were, cries in his sleep, Uttering thousands of words of comfort; While the carnal man at his side hears nothing at all,

(23) "When the Prophet used to tell us deep sayings, That chosen one, while scattering pearls of speech, Would bid us preserve perfect quiet and silence." So, when the mighty phoenix hovers over your head, Causing your soul to tremble at the motion of its wings, You venture not to stir from your place, You hold your breath and repress your coughs, And if one say a word to you, whether good or bad, You place finger on lip, as much as to say, "Be silent." That phoenix is bewilderment, it makes you silent; The kettle is silent, though it is boiling all the while.

(8) The tongue (speech) departed, and having been absent for a year, it came round and said: 'How have you been able to live without me?' They replied: 'Like mute people, not speaking, but breathing with the breath, seeing with the eye, hearing with the ear, thinking with the mind. Thus we lived.' Then speech went back.

(9) 'What wish shall I obtain for you by my songs?' For he who knowing this sings a Sâman is able to obtain wishes through his song, yea, through his song.

(2) "Well, then," enquired Tzŭ Yu, "since the music of earth consists of nothing more than holes, and the music of man of pipes and flutes,—of what consists the music of Heaven?" "The effect of the wind upon these various apertures," replied Tzŭ Ch'i, "is not uniform. But what is it that gives to each the individuality, to all the potentiality, of sound? "Great knowledge embraces the whole: small knowledge, a part only. Great speech is universal: small speech is particular. "For whether when the mind is locked in sleep or whether when in waking hours the body is released, we are subject to daily mental perturbations,—indecision, want of penetration, concealment, fretting fear, and trembling terror. Now like a javelin the mind flies forth, the arbiter of right and wrong. Now like a solemn covenanter it remains firm, the guardian of rights secured. Then, as under autumn and winter's blight, comes gradual decay, a passing away, like the flow of water, never to return. Finally, the block when all is choked up like an old drain,—the failing mind which shall not see light again. "Joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, caution and remorse, come upon us by turns, with ever-changing mood. They come like music from hollowness, like mushrooms from damp. Daily and nightly they alternate within us, but we cannot tell whence they spring. Can we then hope in a moment to lay our finger upon their very Cause?

(32) Keep silence, that you may hear Him speaking Keep silence, that you may hear from that Sun Keep silence, that the Spirit may speak to you; Give up swimming and enter the ark of Noah; Not like Canaan when he was swimming, Who said, "I desire not to enter the ark of Noah passing by." Noah cried, "Ho! child, come into the ark and rest, That you be not drowned in the flood, O weak one." Canaan said, "Nay! I have learned to swim, I have lit a torch of my own apart from thy torch."

(1) Tzŭ Ch'i of Nan-kuo sat leaning on a table. Looking up to heaven, he sighed and became absent, as though soul and body had parted. Yen Ch'êng Tzŭ Yu, who was standing by him, exclaimed, "What are you thinking about that your body should become thus like dry wood, your mind like dead ashes? Surely the man now leaning on the table is not he who was here just now." "My friend," replied Tzŭ Ch'i, "your question is apposite. To-day I have buried myself.... Do you understand?... Ah! perhaps you only know the music of Man, and not that of Earth. Or even if you have heard the music of Earth, you have not heard the music of Heaven." "Pray explain," said Tzŭ Yu. "The breath of the universe," continued Tzŭ Ch'i, "is called wind. At times, it is inactive. But when active, every aperture resounds to the blast. Have you never listened to its growing roar? "Caves and dells of hill and forest, hollows in huge trees of many a span in girth;—these are like nostrils, like mouths, like ears, like beam-sockets, like goblets, like mortars, like ditches, like bogs. And the wind goes rushing through them, sniffing, snoring, singing, soughing, puffing, purling, whistling, whirring, now shrilly treble, now deeply bass, now soft, now loud; until, with a lull, silence reigns supreme. Have you never witnessed among the trees such a disturbance as this?"

(4) followed by a thundering peal, without end and without beginning, now dying, now living, now sinking, now rising, on and on without a moment's break. And so you were afraid. "When I played again, it was the harmony of the Yin and Yang, lighted by the glory of sun and moon; now broken, now prolonged, now gentle, now severe, in one unbroken, unfathomable volume of sound. Filling valley and gorge, stopping the ears and dominating the senses, adapting itself to the capacities of things,—the sound whirled around on all sides, with shrill note and clear. The spirits of darkness kept to their domain. Sun, moon, and stars, pursued their appointed course. When the melody was exhausted I stopped; if the melody did not stop, I went on. You would have sympathised, but you could not understand. You would have looked, but you could not see. You would have pursued, but you could not overtake. You stood dazed in the middle of the wilderness, leaning against a tree and crooning, your eye conscious of exhausted vision, your strength failing for the pursuit, and so unable to overtake me. Your frame was but an empty shell. You were completely at a loss, and so you were amazed. "Then I played in sounds which produce no amazement, the melodious law of spontaneity, springing forth like nature's countless buds, in manifold but formless joy, as though poured forth to the dregs, in deep but soundless bass. Beginning nowhere, the melody rested in void; some would say dead, others alive, others real, others ornamental, as it scattered itself on all sides in never to be anticipated chords.

(9) When the desire for silence comes, not a single thought arises; he who is looking inward suddenly forgets that he looks. At this time, body and heart must be left completely free. All entanglements disappear without trace. Then I no longer know at what place the house of my spirit and my crucible are. If a man wants to make certain of his body, he cannot get at it. This condition is the penetration of Heaven into Earth, the time when all wonders return to their roots.

(6) Speech went off. Having remained away a year, it came back and said: c How have you been able to live without me?' They said: 'As the dumb, not speaking with speech, but breathing with breath, seeing with the eye, hearing with the ear, knowing with the mind, procreating with semen. Thus have we lived.' Speech entered in.

(21) "And the choir of mute fishes rushed to it," says the Tragic Muse somewhere.

(4) Verily, while he does not there speak, he is verily speak- ing, though he does not speak (what is [usually] to be spoken); for there is no cessation of the speaking of a speaker, because of his imperishability [as a speaker]. It is not, however, a second thing, other than himself and separate, to uhich he may speak.

(4) Speech is Rik, and therefore when a man utters a Rik verse he neither breathes up nor down. Rik is Sâman, and therefore when a man utters a Sâman verse he neither breathes up nor down. Sâman is udgîtha, and therefore when a man sings (the udgîtha, Om) he neither breathes up nor down.

(7) Salutations, O Nightingale of the Garden of Love! Utter your plaintive notes caused by the wounds and pains of love. Lament sweetly from the heart, like David. Open your melodious throat and sing of spiritual things. By your songs show men the true Way. Make the iron of your heart as soft as wax, and you will be like David, fervent in the love of God.