Thomas Hardy — Her Apotheosis

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.