Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room

By William Wordsworth

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, into 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.