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?