XI.
When shall the mocking world withhold its blame,
When shall men cease to darken thus my name,
Calling the love which is my pride, my shame!
O Judge, let me my condemnation see;
Whose names are written on my death decree?—
The names of all who have been friends to me.
What hope to reach the Well-Belovéd's door,
The dear lost dwelling that I knew of yore;
I stumbled once; I can return no more.