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.

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