ON BOSTON COMMON. 
—_-¢—— 
Nouns 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, 
Hich 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 ’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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