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 brief solace there, as I have found.