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 [bad word] 

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 [bad word] 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

creature made of clay.
When the angel woos the clay, he'll lose
His wings at the dawn of the day./