 The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Brenda J. Davis. 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, luster mellow, through all the long green fields, has spread his first sweet evening yellow, to his dull and endless strife. Come, hear the woodland linnet, how sweet his music! On my life there's more of wisdom in it. How blithe the throsel 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 meshaves the beauteous forms of things we murder to dissect. Enough of science and of art. Close those barren leaves. Come forth and bring with you a heart that watches and receives. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The sun above the mountain's head, a freshening luster 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 thrussel 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 misshapes 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned. An evening seen by William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner from Ballyclair in County Andrew, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. 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 luster 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 throttle 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 pulse from a vernal wood may teach you more of man, of moral evil and of good, than all the sages can. Sweet is the lure which nature brings. Our meddling intellect misshapes 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. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Cornel Marius Nemesh in Reno, Nevada. 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 mountains had a freshening, luster mellow through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books tease a dull and endless drive. Come, hear the woodland linnet, how sweet his music. On my life there is more of wisdom in it. And hark, how blight the trussel 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 bred by health. Truth bred by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood may pitch 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 misshaves the beautiest 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Cornel Nemes in Reno, Nevada. 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 luster 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 trossel 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 misshapes the beautiest 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 end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Garth Burton. Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, or surely you'll grow double. Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks while this toil and trouble. The sun, above the mountain's head, a freshening luster 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 throttle 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 mole evil, and of good, than all the sages can. Sweet is the law which nature brings. Our meddling intellect misshapes the beautiest 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. 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 luster 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 throsel 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 law which nature brings, our meddling intellect misshapes the beautiest 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned, an evening seen by William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Hope Force One. Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, or surely you'll grow double. Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks while oil this toil and trouble. The sun above the man's head, a freshening lustre mellow. Through all the long green fields has spread his first sweet evening yellow. Books, this a dull and endless strife. Come here the woodland, Lynette. Have sweet his music on my life. There's more of wisdom in it. And hark how blight the truss of things. 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, end of good than all the sages can. Sweet is the love which nature brings, our meddling intellect. Me shapes the beautiful 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Ian King. 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 luster mellow. Through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books. It is a dull and endless strife. Come, hear the woodland lin' it. How sweet his music. On my life there's more of wisdom in it. And hark! How blithe the throttle 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 law which nature brings. Our meddling intellect misshapes 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks. Why all this toil and trouble. The sun, above the mountain's head, a freshening luster mellow. Through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books. It is a dull and endless strife. Come, hear the woodland lin' it. How sweet his music. On my life there's more wisdom in it. In hark, how blight the throsel 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 misshapes 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Elle Wonder. Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, or surely you'll grow double. Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks while all this toil and trouble. The sun above the mountain's head of freshening luster mellow through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books to the 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 throsel 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 misshapes the beautiest 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned in evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. 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 mountains had a freshening, luster mellow through all the long green fields his spread. His first sweet evening, yellow. Books, tis a dull and endless strife. Come hear the woodland linen. How sweet is music on my life. There is no more of wisdom in it. In hark how blithe the throttle 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. Mishapes the beautyous 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Tables Turned. An Evening Seen by William Wordsworth. Read for Librabox.org by Larry Wilson. 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 luster mellow, through all the long green fields has spread his first sweet evening yell. 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 heart, how blithe the throsel 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 good, than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which nature brings. Our meddling intellect misshapes the beautiest 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned, an evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Maya. Up, up, my friend, and quit your books. Or surely you grow double. Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks. Why? All just toil and trouble. The sun above the mountain's head. A freshly luster 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 lean it. How sweet his music on my life. There's more of wisdom in it. And hark, how blithe the throttle 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 end-pause from a vernal wood. May teach you more of man, of more evil and of good. Then all the sages can. Sweets the lore which nature brings. Our meddling intellect. Miss shapes. The beauties. 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by Ryan F. 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 luster 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 throsel 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. Breath 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 misshapes 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. End of poem. This recording is on the public domain. The tables turned. An evening scene by William Wordsworth. Read for LibriVox.org by товарищ. Up, up, my friend, and quit your books. Oh, 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 luster 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 throsal 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 word may teach you more of man of moral evil and of good than all the sages can. Sweet is the law which nature brings. Our meddling intellect misshapes the beauty's 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.