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.