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On Raglan Road on an Autumn day |
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I saw her first and knew, |
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that her dark hair would weave a snare |
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that I might one day rue. |
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I saw the danger yet I passed |
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along the enchanted way. |
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And I said, "Let grief be a fallen leaf |
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at the dawning of the day." |
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On Grafton Street in November, |
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we tripped lightly along the ledge |
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of a deep ravine where can be seen |
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the worth of passions pledge. |
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The Queen of Hearts still making tarts |
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and I not making hay. |
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Oh, I loved too much by such, by such |
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is happiness blown away. |
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I gave her gifts of the mind, |
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I gave her the secret sign that's known |
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to the artists who have known the true |
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gods of sound and stone. |
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And word and tint I did not stint |
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for I gave her poems to say. |
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With her own name there and her dark hair, |
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like clouds over fields of May. |
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On a quiet street where old ghosts meet |
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I see her walking now, |
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away from me so hurriedly. |
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My reason must allow, |
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that I had loved, not as I should. |
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A creature made of clay. |
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When the angel woos the clay, |
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he'll lose his wings at the dawn of day. |
