BALLADE AT THIRTY-FIVE - Dorothy Parker Poems

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.

• Poems
•  | 
• Jokes
•  | 
• Biographies