On Raglan Road, on 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, yet I walked
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 where can be seen
The worth of passion's pledge.
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts,
And I not making hay.
Oh, I loved too much; by such, by such,
Is happiness blown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind,
I gave her the secret sign that's known.
To the artists who have knows the true
Gods of sound and stone.
And word and tint, I did not stint,
For 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 wooed, not as I should,
A creature made of clay.
When the angel woos
The clay, he'd lose his wings
At the dawn of day.
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