On Raglan Rad of 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 and I passed 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 the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's play
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I agve her the secret signs
That's known to the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And words and tint without stint, I agve her poems to say
With her own game 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 loved not a s I should a creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay he'll lose his wings at dawn of day.