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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 falling 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 pledged |
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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 and by such, by such |
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Is happiness thrown away |
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I gave her gifts of the mind |
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I gave her the secret sign |
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That's known to the artists who have known |
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The true 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 own 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 dawn of day |
