The Tables Turned

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 those barren leaves;


Come forth, and bring with you a heart


That watches and receives.