Enough Rope/Ballade at Thirty-five

by Dorothy Parker

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.

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