On Raglan Road of an autumn day, I saw her first and knew,
That her dark hair would weave a snare, that I might one day rue,
I saw the danger and I passed, along the enchanted way,
and I said let grief be a fallen 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 worth of passions play,
The queen of hearts still making tarts, and I not making hay,
Oh I loved too much and by such and by such, is happiness thrown away.
I gave her many gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret signs,
Known to the artists who have known, the true Gods of sound and stone,
And her words and tint I did not stint, I
gave her poems to say,
With her own name there and her own dark hair, like 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,
That I had 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.