The Dewy Morn by Richard Jefferies

Since Robert Godwin could not by the effort of a lifetime have summoned up sufficient imagination to tell his own story, I must do the romance for him, and explain why he could not sleep that night. You now know the man, who could rout about dusty lumber that his hands might be employed, who could not see the sky. Here is his romance.

Nine years ago, that very time of the year, Robert Godwin, starting forth into the fields one day, saw a trespasser in a meadow of mowing-grass. A trespasser rolling about in the sacred mowing-grass, wilfully damaging it -- with the aid of a dog, too.