Nutting

.         —It seems a day

   (I speak of one from many singled out)

   One of those heavenly days that cannot die;

   When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

   I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth

   With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,

   A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps

   Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,

   Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds

  Which for that service had been husbanded,

  By exhortation of my frugal Dame—

  Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

  At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,

  More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,

  Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,

  Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook

  Unvisited, where not a broken bough

  Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign

  Of devastation; but the hazels rose

  Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,

  A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,

  Breathing with such suppression of the heart

  As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint

  Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

  The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate

  Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

  A temper known to those, who, after long

  And weary expectation, have been blest

  With sudden happiness beyond all hope.

  Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

  The violets of five seasons re-appear

  And fade, unseen by any human eye;

  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on

  For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,

  And—with my cheek on one of those green stones

  That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,

  Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep—

  I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound,

  In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

  Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,

  The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,

  Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

  And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,

  And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

  And merciless ravage: and the shady nook

  Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,

  Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up

  Their quiet being: and, unless I now

  Confound my present feelings with the past;

  Ere from the mutilated bower I turned

  Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,

  I felt a sense of pain when I beheld

  The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—

  Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades

  In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand

  Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

NOTESForm: unrhyming Composition Date:late 17981. Composed in Germany late in 1798 and quoted by Dorothy Wordsworth in a letter of December 21 (?). Wordsworth said that it was \