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 [bad word]  

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, [bad word]  

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.