Henry David Thoreau



                   Conscience


                   Conscience is instinct bred in the house, 
                   Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin 
                   By an unnatural breeding in and in. 
                   I say, Turn it out doors, 
                   Into the moors. 
                   I love a life whose plot is simple, 
                   And does not thicken with every pimple, 
                   A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it, 
                   That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it. 
                   I love an earnest soul, 
                   Whose mighty joy and sorrow 
                   Are not drowned in a bowl, 
                   And brought to life to-morrow; 
                   That lives one tragedy, 
                   And not seventy; 
                   A conscience worth keeping; 
                   Laughing not weeping; 
                   A conscience wise and steady, 
                   And forever ready; 
                   Not changing with events, 
                   Dealing in compliments; 
                   A conscience exercised about 
                   Large things, where one may doubt. 
                   I love a soul not all of wood, 
                   Predestinated to be good, 
                   But true to the backbone 
                   Unto itself alone, 
                   And false to none; 
                   Born to its own affairs, 
                   Its own joys and own cares; 
                   By whom the work which God begun 
                   Is finished, and not undone; 
                   Taken up where he left off, 
                   Whether to worship or to scoff; 
                   If not good, why then evil, 
                   If not good god, good devil. 
                   Goodness! you hypocrite, come out of that, 
                   Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. 
                   I have no patience towards 
                   Such conscientious cowards. 
                   Give me simple laboring folk, 
                   Who love their work, 
                   Whose virtue is song 
                   To cheer God along.


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