’Tis hardly becoming to jest,
And that saint upstairs[551] at rest—
Her soul may be listening, too!
Well may your visage[552] turn yellow—
I was always a brute[553] of a fellow!
To think how I doubted and doubted,
Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554]
That golden-haired angel—and solely
Because she was zealous and holy!
Noon and night and morn