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.