On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew <br />That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; <br />I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way, <br />And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. <br /> <br />On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge <br />Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge, <br />The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay - <br />O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away. <br /> <br />I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known <br />To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone <br />And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say. <br />With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May <br /> <br />On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now <br />Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow <br />That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay - <br />When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.<br /><br />Patrick Kavanagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-raglan-road/
