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am not known To evil-doers, nor to foolish ones, Nor to the
base and churlish; nor to those Whose mind is cheated by the show of
things, Nor those that take the way of Asuras. Four sorts
of mortals know me: he who weeps, Arjuna! and the man who yearns to
know; And he who toils to help; and he who sits Certain of me,
enlightened.
Of these four, O Prince of India!
highest, nearest, best That last is, the devout soul, wise, intent
Upon "The One." Dear, above all, am I To him; and he
is dearest unto me! All four are good, and seek me; but mine own,
The true of heart, the faithful- stayed on me, Taking me as
their utmost, blessedness, They are not "mine," but I-
even I myself! At end of many births to Me they come! Yet hard
the wise Mahatma is to find, That man who sayeth, "All is
Vasudev!"
There be those, too, whose knowledge,
turned aside By this desire or that, gives them to serve Some lower
gods, with various rites, constrained By that which moulded
them.
Unto all such- Worship what shrine they will, what shapes, in faith-
'Tis I who give them faith! I am content!
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