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Dorothy Parker - Ballade At Thirty-five
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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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