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A Well-Worn Story

 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?

Poem by Dorothy Parker
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