| 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. |
