Ballade at Thirty-Five
This, no song of an ingénue,This, no ballad of innocence;This, the rhyme of a lady whoFollowed 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--henceI 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.
Words in this poem
- sapience n.
- The quality of being sapient; wisdom; sageness; knowledge. [L. sapientia: cf. F. sapience. See Sapient..]
- chantey n.
- A sailor's song.
- sophistry n.
- The art or process of reasoning; logic. [OE. sophistrie, OF. sophisterie.]
- sable n.
- A carnivorous animal of the Weasel family (Mustela zibellina) native of the northern latitudes of Europe, Asia, and America, -- noted for its fine, soft, and valuable fur. [OF. sable, F. zibeline sable (in sense 4), LL. sabellum; cf. D. sabel, Dan. sabel, zobel, Sw. sabel, sobel, G. zobel; all fr. Russ. sóbole.]
- myriad n.
- The number of ten thousand; ten thousand persons or things. [Gr. myriade.]
- acre n.
- Any field of arable or pasture land. [OE. aker, AS. æcer; akin to OS. accar, OHG. achar, Ger. acker, Icel. akr, Sw. åker, Dan. ager, Goth. akrs, L. ager, Gr. ajra. *2, 206.]
- tenderly adv.
- In a tender manner; with tenderness; mildly; gently; softly; in a manner not to injure or give pain; with pity or affection; kindly.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Ballade at Thirty-Five is in the public domain. This text is taken from Enough Rope: Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #68353; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Dorothy Parker, Ballade at Thirty-Five, in Enough Rope (1926), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #68353, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/parker-enough-rope/ballade-at-thirty-five.html, id L27373.
Form and metre
Ballade at Thirty-Five is 28 lines in 4 stanzas. The metre is dactylic trimeter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 83%).
See other poems in dactylic trimeter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 A-A----- ingénueA · innocence · whoA · bents · sapience · sophistry · experiments · me
- 2 ABACB-C- hueA · lentsB · rueA · penitenceC · repentsB · memory · reverenceC · me
- 3 A-ABBCBC reviewA · events · trueA · coincidenceB · consequenceB · beC · henceB · meC
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against dactylic trimeter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| This, no song of an ingénue, | 7 | ······· |
| This, no ballad of innocence; | 8 | ··/˘·/˘˘ |
| This, the rhyme of a lady who | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Followed ever her natural bents. | 8 | /˘/·/˘˘· |
| This, a solo of sapience, | 8 | ··/··/˘˘ |
| This, a chantey of sophistry, | 8 | ··/˘·/˘˘ |
| This, the sum of experiments,-- | 8 | ····˘/˘˘ |
| I loved them until they loved me. | 8 | ········ |
| Decked in garments of sable hue, | 8 | ··/˘·/˘· |
| Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents, | 8 | ··/˘·/˘· |
| Wearing shower bouquets of rue, | 8 | /˘/˘˘/·· |
| Walk I ever in penitence. | 8 | ··/˘·/˘˘ |
| Oft I roam, as my heart repents, | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Through God's acre of memory, | 8 | ··/˘·/˘˘ |
| Marking stones, in my reverence, | 8 | /˘···/˘˘ |
| "I loved them until they loved me." | 8 | ········ |
| Pictures pass me in long review,-- | 8 | /˘·····/ |
| Marching columns of dead events. | 8 | /˘/˘··˘/ |
| I was tender, and, often, true; | 8 | ··/˘·/˘· |
| Ever a prey to coincidence. | 9 | /˘···˘/˘˘ |
| Always knew I the consequence; | 8 | /˘···/˘˘ |
| Always saw what the end would be. | 8 | /······· |
| We're as Nature has made us--hence | 8 | ··/˘···· |
| I loved them until they loved me. | 8 | ········ |
| Princes, never I'd give offense, | 8 | /˘/˘··˘/ |
| Won't you think of me tenderly? | 8 | ·····/˘˘ |
| Here's my strength and my weakness, gents,-- | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| I loved them until they loved me. | 8 | ········ |
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