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Up up! my friend and quit your books,
Or surely you will go double;
Up up! my friend and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
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She has the world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
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The sun, above
the mountain's head,
A freshening luster mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread
His first sweet evening yellow.
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One impulse from a vernal
wood
May teach you more of man,
Moral evil and of good
Than all the sages can.
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Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life
There's more wisdom in it.
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Sweet is the lore which nature brings;
Our meddling
intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things --
We murder to dissect.
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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.
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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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--William Wordsworth
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