There was a spell of leisure,
       &nbsp No record vouches when;
With honours, praises, pleasure
       &nbsp To womankind from men.

But no such lures bewitched me,
       &nbsp No hand was stretched to raise,
No gracious gifts enriched me,
       &nbsp No voices sang my praise.

Yet an iris at that season
       &nbsp Amid the accustomed slight
From denseness, dull unreason,
       &nbsp Ringed me with living light.