Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote this poem a hundred fifty years ago. Somehow I don't think today's cultural conservatives look back to the days when Herman Melville and Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., would relax over cider and chat about the Ramayana, you know? (Even the South had Indian influences: Country Captain Chicken, which is clearly a transplanted British Indian curry. And, um, hm.) It's a little spooky how Emerson recreates some very ancient Indo-European effects. Actually the whole poem is spooky.
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.