Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; <br />And hermits are contented with their cells; <br />And students with their pensive citadels; <br />Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, <br />Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, <br />High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, <br />Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: <br />In truth the prison, unto which we doom <br />Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, <br />In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound <br />Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; <br />Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) <br />Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, <br />Should find brief solace there, as I have found.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nuns-fret-not-at-their-convent-s-narrow-room/
