On Raglan Road 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 lay of a deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passions play. The queen of hearts still making tarts and I not making hay. Oh, I love too much and by such, by such is happiness thrown away. I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign
Known to the artists who have known the true Gods of sound and stone. And words and tint I did not stint, I gave her poems to say. With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over the 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 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.