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 forthWith a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my stepsTow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weedsWhich for that service had been husbanded,By exhortation of my frugal Dame--Motley accoutrement, of power to smileAt 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 nookUnvisited, where not a broken boughDrooped with its withered leaves, ungracious signOf devastation; but the hazels roseTall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,A virgin scene!--A little while I stood,Breathing with such suppression of the heartAs joy delights in; and, with wise restraintVoluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyedThe banquet;--or beneath the trees I sateAmong the flowers, and with the flowers I played;A temper known to those, who, after longAnd weary expectation, have been blestWith sudden happiness beyond all hope.Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leavesThe violets of five seasons re-appearAnd fade, unseen by any human eye;Where fairy water-breaks do murmur onFor ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,And--with my cheek on one of those green stonesThat, 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 payTribute 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 crashAnd merciless ravage: and the shady nookOf hazels, and the green and mossy bower,Deformed and sullied, patiently gave upTheir quiet being: and, unless I nowConfound my present feelings with the past;Ere from the mutilated bower I turnedExulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,I felt a sense of pain when I beheldThe silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.--Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shadesIn gentleness of heart; with gentle handTouch--for there is a spirit in the woods.

The woods round Esthwaite Lake have undergone considerable change sinceWordsworth's school-days at Hawkshead; but hazel coppice is still