Nuns Fret Not
It's weird how phrases get stuck in your head, like insistent theme tunes, and won't go away. I've had the words "Nuns fret not" surfacing on and off this last while. Nuns fret not. I bet they do. I bet they fret like billyo. I've certainly been fretting something chronic over my writing lately. Maybe I should write a sonnet. I've heard worse advice!
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.