On raglan road on an autumn day
I saw he first and knew
That his dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and 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
For I loved too much, by such and such
Is happiness thrown away

I gave he the gifts of the mind
I gave he the secret sign
Thats known to all the artists who have
Known true gods of sound and time
With word and tint I did not stint
I gave he reams of poems to say
With his own dark hair and his own name there
Like the clouds over fields of may

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
I see he 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, hell lose
His wings at the dawn of the day