Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent's Narrow Room
by William Wordsworth
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.
* * *
All right, you've seen the sonnets I've been putting up. Your turn -- write me some! I'm working on one in praise of cheese. What will you do?
Any topic will do -- romantic, religious, philosophical, funny. All four would be great. For tips on sonnet structure, read the most recent sonnet posts.
10 comments:
Is there a deadline?
Yes, but I haven't set it yet. Probably soon after Easter.
NOT FAIR!!!!!! I ALREADY WROTE A SONNET IN PRAISE OF CHEESE!!!!!!!!
Can I just submit that?
+JMJ+
I take it this is our new contest? =)
+JMJ+
Arrrggghh! I'm such an idiot! Of course I didn't read the title of the post! *slaps forehead* =S
I'll go off and try to produce a sonnet now . . .
Oh! Yeah! Sonnets!!!!!!! Coming right up!
::leaps up and runs into door-frame::
*smack!*
Owwwwww....
Ah, what would we ever do without Meredith?
Feel free to write a sonnet in praise of cheese yourself, Ibid. Dr. Thursday has, too. There's no monopoly on topics.
+JMJ+
Sheila, did you receive the entry I e-mailed to you? (I was too shy to post it here but now wonder if Gmail was working properly when I hit "Send".)
So I take it we can post our entry here in the combox...I don't have a title for mine yet.
As wide shores are rained with feeding dunlin,
so every place our drumming sin persists:
depot, hearth, school; our tenor-tide consists
so much of sin, needs we bury it in
a din, heirloomed from stranger, friend and kin;
while those appear upended that resist,
for by fulsome sin we make our sheen subsist:
we winnow, grind, knead digestible, sin.
Still the price of light's our stain's exposure;
but little demarked of our sins' bored tread,
spells some exposed, freely, on another:
as he who accepts light's light imposure
can no longer be the counterweight lead
that holds at mid-height, sister or brother.
(The "so" in line 2 can be removed or left as desired.)
Yes, I did, Embrethiel, and it is lovely!
Thanks for the submission, Paul!
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