Ballade At Thirty-Five

This, no song of ingénue
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever the natural bents
This, a solo of sapience
This, a chantey of sophistry
This, the sum of experiments, --
I loved them until they loved me
Decked in garments of sable hue
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents
Wearing shower bouquets of rue
Walk I ever in penitence
Oft I roam, as my heart repents
Through God’s acre of memory
Marking stones, in my reverence
«I loved them until they loved me.»
Pictures pass me in long review,--
Marching columns of dead events
I was tender, and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be
We’re as Nature has made us -- hence
I loved them until they loved me
Princes, never I’d give offense
Won’t you think of me tenderly?
Here’s my strength and my weakness, gents —
I loved them until they loved me