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 this 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.
Do you know the quote "Art lives from constraints, dies from freedom"? It seems pertinent here. I can't find out who said it, though. My book of quotations doesn't have it in and the Internet, as usual, has a number of different suggestions as to the original thinker.
ReplyDeleteI don't know the quote but it does seem relevant. Most of the best artists have had to struggle, haven't they?
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