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!