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.