(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967 / Long Branch / New Jersey)

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?

User Rating: 3,2 / 5 ( 82 votes ) 16

Comments (16)

This poems more dead than me :)
At least now you're dead you can't write anymore poems lol.
salamwaalakum, this is a very bad poem, no me gusta. you should stop making poems
HE HE, this poem ded lol retire, btw im still dead
A Well Dead story more like. I read this to my grandma and she hated it, and she's deaf!
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