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

again.

Far or
forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanquished 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 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.

Ralph Waldo Emerson