I had to look up what porphyry is. (It’s a rock and a name, including of a Neoplatonist philosopher and Christian saint.) This poem’s eleventh line gets me every time I read it.
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?
– Dorothy Parker