The Parent and Her Picture

Amelia

"Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?"

-Thoreau

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.