William Wordsworth

Here you will find the Poem Nutting of poet William Wordsworth


---------------------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.