Poem by Dorothy Parker

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.

  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.

1. The Thin Edge
2. Philosophy
3. Indian Summer
4. Social Note
5. Love Song

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