William Wordsworth (
1770-
1850)
An Evening Scene, On the Same Subject
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
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things -
We murder to
dissect.
Enough of
Science and of
Art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.