BALLADE AT THIRTY-FIVE

DOROTHY PARKER

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This, no song of an ingenue,
     This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
     Followed ever her 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.

      L'ENVOI

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.