Absorbed in books, which were perchance a bane,
Perchance a blessing; or in glittering crowds,
Gazing all rapt on woman’s eloquent face,
Nature’s most witching and most treacherous page;
Or high in mirth with those whose senseful wit
Outflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow,
I’ve held my vigils till the brow of Night
Grew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp,
Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space.
I do repent me of my worship. Night