Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room...

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, unto which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,

In sundry moods,' twas pastime to be bound

Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some Souls ( for such there needs must be )

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find briefsolace there, as I have found.