| On Raglan Road on an Autumn Day,
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| I saw her first and knew
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| That her dark hair would weave a snare
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| That I may one day rue.
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| I saw the danger, yet I walked
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| Along the enchanted way
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| And I said let grief be a falling leaf
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| At the dawning of the day.
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| On Grafton Street in November,
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| We tripped lightly along the ledge
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| Of a deep ravine where can be seen
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| The worst of passions pledged.
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| The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts
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| And I not making hay,
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| Well I loved too much; |
| by such and such
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| Is happiness thrown away.
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| I gave her the gifts of the mind.
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| I gave her the secret sign
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| That’s known to all the artists who have
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| Known true Gods of Sound and Time.
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| With word and tint I did not stint.
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| I gave her reams of poems to say
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| With her own dark hair and her own name there
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| Like the clouds over fields of May.
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| On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
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| I see her walking now away from me,
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| So hurriedly. |
| My reason must allow,
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| For I have wooed, not as I should
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| A creature made of clay.
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| When the angel woos the clay, he’ll lose |
| His wings at the dawn of the day. |