Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/113

105 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.