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
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 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, he'll lose
his wings at the dawn of the day.