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.
written by William Wordsworth, published on Wed 06.22.2011 at 05:41
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
The time of early youth; and there you learned,
From years of quiet industry, to love
written by William Wordsworth, published on Sat 05.07.2011 at 00:42
.Another year!--another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
written by William Wordsworth, published on Mon 04.18.2011 at 21:56
WHEN Contemplation, like the night-calm felt
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
written by William Wordsworth, published on Mon 04.18.2011 at 14:35
.Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied.
Woman! above all women glorified,
written by William Wordsworth, published on Thu 04.14.2011 at 07:38
. I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
written by William Wordsworth, published on Thu 03.24.2011 at 05:09
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty: