THE TABLES TURNED
by William Wordsworth
Up! up, my friend! and quit your books,
Or surely you’ll grow double;
Up! up, my friend! and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble ?
The sun, above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long, green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife;
Come, hear the woodland linnet -
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it!
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher;
Come forth into the light of things -
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless;
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things -
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
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