Love Wordsworth and this sonnet which to me sings of a writers freedom yet being trapped…

Nuns fret not

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, into 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.

W. Wordsworth