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.