Nuns fret not

William Wordsworth

1770 to 1850

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

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