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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,
     I am 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.
Other works by Ralph Waldo Emerson...



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