Conscience

The previous print was inspired by this poem by Henry David Thoreau entitled "Conscience."

Conscience is instinct bred in the house,

Feeling and Thinking propogate 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 it finds it.

I love an earnest soul,

Whose might joy and sorrow

Are not drowned in a bowl,

And brought to life tomorrow;

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 compliements;

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.