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 Unto 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.