On Raglan Road of an Autumn day I saw her first and knew, That her dark hair would weave a snare That I might someday 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 passion play. The Queen of Hearts still making tarts And I not making hay; Oh, I loved too much and by such and such Is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret signs, That's known to the artists who have known The true gods of sound and stone. And her words and tint without 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, And 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 day.