Another Well-Worn Story

by illimitableoceanofinexplicability

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Maybe you recall me mentioning how I spend more than a few of my idle hours imagining myself working as Ms. Emily Dickinson’s gardener, and perhaps you thought that a job such as that, as lovely as it would seem to be, would leave little time for any other activities, however, you would be wrong. For though I work tirelessly from sun up until sun down, it is in the hours of darkness that I find the time to slip away to a local tavern for conversation and drinks with Ms. Dorothy Parker. It was on just such an occasion that Ms. Parker told me

A Well-Worn Story

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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?

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 This story so struck me, the truth of it, at times, more than I could bear that I was compelled in turn to tell Ms. Parker

Another Well-Worn Story

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