There was a spell of leisure,
  No record vouches when;
With honours, praises, pleasure
  To womankind from men.
But no such lures bewitched me,
  No hand was stretched to raise,
No gracious gifts enriched me,
  No voices sang my praise.
Yet an iris at that season
  Amid the accustomed slight
From denseness, dull unreason,
  Ringed me with living light.
  No record vouches when;
With honours, praises, pleasure
  To womankind from men.
But no such lures bewitched me,
  No hand was stretched to raise,
No gracious gifts enriched me,
  No voices sang my praise.
Yet an iris at that season
  Amid the accustomed slight
From denseness, dull unreason,
  Ringed me with living light.
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