This, no song of ingénue, This, no ballad of innocence; This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever the 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.
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.
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