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
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,
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.
