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 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.

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.