by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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 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
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.
this poem seems a hell of a lot sillier to me now than it did when i was a kid and i first read it. so it goes.