"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM"
In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my
sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well
acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that
occasion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that
runs through most of them,--in character so totally different from
the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I
took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three
Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an
irregular one at school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly
remember is--"I grieved for Buonaparte." One was never written
down: the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot
particularise.
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.
