With apologies to William Wordsworth and Mel Tormé.

Blessed nuns fret not at their narrow rooms;
Hermits fret not at their cells;
Maids at their wheels, those who weave with their looms,
And students in their citadels
Happiness indwells. A blithe and humble little bee
Will sit and murmur by the hour;
High on a peak overlooking the sea
But nestled deep within a flower.

They know in scanty plots of ground
In sundry moods, ‘tis pastime to be bound;
And to shed the weight of liberty
Can sometimes really make you more free.

In truth, the prison into which we doom
Ourselves no prison is; I’ll be
Pleased if some souls (they exist, I assume)
Find brief solace — here with me.