This, no song of ingenue,
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This, no ballad of innocence;
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This, the rhyme of a lady who
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Followed ever the natural bents.
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This, a solo of sapience,
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This, a chantey of sophistry,
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This, the sum of experiments, --
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I loved them until they loved me.
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Decked in garments of sable hue,
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Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
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Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
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Walk I ever in penitence.
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Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
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Through God's acre of memory,
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Marking stones, in my reverence,
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"I loved them until they loved me."
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Pictures pass me in long review,--
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Marching columns of dead events.
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I was tender, and, often, true;
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Ever a prey to coincidence.
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Always knew I the consequence;
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Always saw what the end would be.
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We're as Nature has made us -- hence
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I loved them until they loved me.
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Princes, never I'd give offense,
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Won't you think of me tenderly?
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Here's my strength and my weakness, gents -
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I loved them until they loved me.
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-----------------
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Ballade At Thirty Five
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| Carala Bruni |
