Brahma

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 vanish'd 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.