Nuns fret not
William Wordsworth
1770 to 1850
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Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room;
And are contented with their Cells;
And Students with their Citadels:
Maids at the Wheel, the Weaver at his Loom,
Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,
as the highest Peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur the hour in Foxglove bells:
In truth, the prison, which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
Pleas'd if some (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt weight of too much liberty,
Should find short solace there, as I have found.
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