Of old your father would not brook our love;
But lately much has done to forward it.”
“And know you then,” I asked, “what wrought his change?”
“His wiser judgment,” answer’d he; “not so?”
“Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and paths
Where conscientiousness and love may cross?”
“There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!—
Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend,
Does not our conscience come from consciousness?
And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell: