A Well-Worn Story

by Dorothy Parker

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?