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 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 worth of passions pledged.
The queen of hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay,
Oh I loved too much; and by such and such
Is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind.
I gave her the secret sign
That’s known to artists who have known
The true gods of sound and time.
And words and tint I did not stint.
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her long dark hair
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,
That I have 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 day.