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.