On Raglan Road, on an August 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, yet I walked Along the enchanted way, And I said, let grief be a fallin' 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 true worth of passion's pledge, 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 gave her the secret sign That's known to the artist who has seen The true gods of sound and stone And word and tint, I did not stint, I gave her poems to say. With her own name there, And her long dark hair, Like clouds over fields of May On a quiet street where the old ghosts meet, I see her walking now Away from me so horridly, My reason must allow That I had wooed, not as I should, A creature made of clay When the angel woos the clay, he'd lose His wings at the dawn of day