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 falling 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 Thats 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 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 have wooed, not as I should A creature made of clay. When the angel woos the clay, hell lose His wings at the dawn of the day.