If the red slayer think he slays,
Or the slain think he is slain.
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me are near:
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear:
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me and turn thy back on heaven.

(R W Emerson)

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