Guest
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 day rue. I saw the danger yet I walked, 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 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 true 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 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. For I had wooed, 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.
