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?

by Dorothy Parker

Other poems by 'Dorothy Parker'

A Certain Lady

A Dream Lies Dead

A Fairly Sad Tale

A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature

A Portrait

A Very Short Song

After Spanish Proverb

Afternoon

Alexandre Dumas And His Son

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