Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room;
And Hermits are contented in their Cells;
And Students in their pensive Citadels;
Maids at the Wheel, the Weaver at his Loom,
Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,
Higher than the highest Peak of Furness fells
Will murmur by the hour in Foxglove bells:
In truth, this prison, into 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:
Pleas'd if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.