Written in 1799 by
William Wordsworth.
This poem is one of his first published after the
Lyrical Ballads (1798).
The "frugal dame" of the poem is generally thought to represent Ann Tyson, who was not his mother, but was very like one to William and his siblings, especially after their father's death, when William was only thirteen.
---------------------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.
Oolong notes: re Nutting: Also, UK slang for 'headbutting'.