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 p*ssions 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, h*ll lose
his wings at the dawn of the day.