Henry David 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