ON BOSTON COMMON. 



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 Furuess-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 '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 have felt the weight of too much liberty. 

 Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 



Wordsworth. 

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