William Croswell

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 fox-glove bells.

In truth the prison unto which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is; and hence to me,

In sundry moods, ’t was pastime to be bound

Within the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)

Who ’ve felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find short solace there, as I have found.