On Raglan Road on an Autumn Day,
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I may one day rue.
I saw the danger, yet I walked
Along the enchanted way
And I said let grief be a falling leaf
At the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November,
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worst of passions pledged.
The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts
And I not making hay,
Well I loved too much; by such, by such
Is happiness thrown away.
I gave her the gifts of the mind.
I gave her the secret sign
That’s known to the artists who have
Known true Gods of Sound and Time.
With word and tint I did not stint.
I gave her reams of poems to say
With her own dark hair and her own name there
Like the clouds over fields of May.
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
I see her walking now
Away from me, So hurriedly.
My reason must allow,
For I have loved, not as I should,
A creature made of clay.
When the angel woos the clay, he’ll lose
His wings at the dawn of the day.
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