And I hardly appreciated her—
Her praying, fasting, confessing,
Poorly,[521] I own, I mated her;
I thought her too cold, and rated[522] her
For her endless image-caressing.
Too saintly for me by far,
As pure and as cold as a star,[523]
Not fashioned for kissing and pressing—
But made for a heavenly crown.
Ay, father, let us go down—