Ballade At Thirty-five

This, no song of an ingénue,

        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.