O Nature! I do not aspire

To be the highest in thy quire,—

To be a meteor in the sky,

Or comet that may range on high;

Only a zephyr that may blow

Among the reeds by the river low;

Give me thy most privy place

Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead

Let me sigh upon a reed,

Or in the woods, with leafy din,

Whisper the still evening in:

Some still work give me to do,—

Only—be it near to you!

For I’d rather be thy child

And pupil, in the forest wild,

Than be the king of men elsewhere,

And most sovereign slave of care:

To have one moment of thy dawn,

Than share the city’s year forlorn.

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 for ever 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 a song


To cheer God along.