Light.

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. 

William Wordsworth