A Well-Worn Story

by Dorothy Parker

　　

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In April, in April, My one love came along, And I ran the slope of my high hill To follow a thread of song. His eyes were hard as porphyry With looking on cruel lands; His voice went slipping over me Like terrible silver hands. Together we trod the secret lane And walked the muttering town. I wore my heart like a wet, red stain On the breast of a velvet gown. In April, in April, My love went whistling by, And I stumbled here to my high hill Along the way of a lie. Now what should I do in this place But sit and count the chimes, And splash cold water on my face And spoil a page with rhymes?

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