On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would me ensnare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger,
yet I passed 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 skipped lightly
along the ledge of a deep ravine
where can be seen the words
of passions pledged.
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts,
And I not making hay.
Oh, I love too much, and by such, by such,
Is happiness blown away.
I gave her the secrets of the mind,
I gave her the sign that's known.
Unto the artist who has loved,
A true god of clay and stone,
And words 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 al low
That I had loved, not as I should,
A creature made of clay.
When the angel woos,
his wings he'll loose
At the dawning of the day.