<= 2002.01.21

2002.01.23 =>

on ascesis

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 some there must needs be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
 
—W. Wordsworth

 

<= 2002.01.21

2002.01.23 =>

up (2002.01)

The Warm South
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