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 to 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 brief solace there, as I have found.