Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, Why all this toil and trouble? Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double. 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 love 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.
Two Wordsworth Songs
Song Cycle by Otto Freudenthal (b. 1934)
1. Sweet is the love  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Authorship:
- by William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850), "The tables turned; An Evening Scene on the same Subject", written 1798
Go to the single-text view
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]2. I heard a thousand...  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from Heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
Authorship:
- by William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850), "Written in early spring"
Go to the single-text view
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]Total word count: 341