Here let me lie, and press
My forehead's pain out on Thy mantle's hem;
And chide not my distress,
For this, that I have loved thee less,
In loving so much some, whose sordidness
Has left me outcast, at the last, from them
And their poor love, which I cannot contemn.
No, cannot, even now,
Put Thee before them in my broken heart.
But, gentle Shepherd, Thou