Ballade At Thirty-Five (Album)

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.

I loved them until they loved me.

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.

I loved them until they loved me.

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,

I loved them until they loved me.Princes, never I’d give offense,

I loved them until they loved me.Princes, never I’d give offense,

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

This, no song of ingénue,

This, no ballad of innocence;

This, the rhyme of a lady who