Enough Rope/A Well-Worn Story
A Well-Worn Story
IN April, in April,My one love came along,And I ran the slope of my high hillTo follow a thread of song.
His eyes were hard as porphyryWith looking on cruel lands;His voice went slipping over meLike terrible silver hands.
Together we trod the secret laneAnd walked the muttering town.I wore my heart like a wet, red stainOn the breast of a velvet gown.
In April, in April,My love went whistling by,And I stumbled here to my high hillAlong the way of a lie.
Now what should I do in this placeBut sit and count the chimes,And splash cold water on my faceAnd spoil a page with rhymes?