If the red slayer think he slays, 
Or if 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 is 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 doubt, 
I am 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.