On Raglan Road on an Autumn day, I saw her first and knew,
That her dark hair would weave a snare, that I may 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 ravine where can be seen, the worst of passions pledged.
The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts, and I not making hay;
Well I loved too much, by such and such, is happiness thrown away.
I gave her the gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret sign,
That’s known to all the artists who have known true gods of sound and time.
With word and tint I did not stint, I gave her reams of poems to say,
With her own dark hair and her own name there, like the clouds over the 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.
For I had wooed, 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.