The Tables Turned The Tables Turned The Tables Turned William Wordsworth 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. 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. 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. 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. Grace Schroeder Ms. Stariha British Literature B 5 April 2013 This poem signifies the break that society was experiencing during the 18th century enlightenment period. Throughout the 18th century knowledge became power. The control of which the human race could possess over human nature was realized, and science, as well as art gained significance. Although, this lust for control was diminishing the importance of nature and simplicity and had resulted in a complexity many no longer appreciated. This poem, written by Wordsworth, represents a transition onto the Romantic Era, one of emotion and a respect to nature, from an era of rationalism and logical ideals.
He begins his poem by saying to his reader, “Up! up! my Friend and quit your books. ” Immediately displaying the message of this poem as one against the knowledge and learning from books, written by the wisdom of men. The author describes how nature provides equal education and the songs of the birds give more wisdom than books. In the fourth stanza, his concluding line says “Let nature be your teacher. ” It is obvious that William Wordsworth believes the knowledge that Mother Nature can provide is much more valuable than man’s words. He personifies nature through the poem, implying that it is just as capable as men.
He also uses words such as “spontaneous” and “impulse” suggesting that unlike man, nature does not require thought or planning beforehand. Nature can reflect its wisdom more easily than man, and is therefore more effective in its teaching. The ineffectiveness of books is also suggested through the use of the word “dull” in the first line of the third stanza. After the sixth stanza of the poem, a transition takes place. As the first six stanzas focus on the benefit of nature with less of a portrayal of the faults of men, the final stanzas describe the faults of humanity, and attempt at wisdom.
Wordsworth writes “Our meddling intellect, Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:– We murder to dissect. ” explaining that as men interfere their ability to learn, they are unnecessarily complicating such simple and perfect things brought by nature. In learning more about one subject and taking it apart, we are essentially killing the beautiful simplicity it once held. He writes how nature and its simplicity is good, and the desire of humanity to complex and interfere is harmful to this natural cycle.
