William Wordsworth. 1770–1850 533. The Sonnet 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,      5 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      10 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.