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P. Kavanagh
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On Raglan Road on an Autumn day,
i saw her first and knew,
that her dark hair would weave a snare that i may someday 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 world of passions pledge.
The Queen of Heart's still baking tarts,
and i'm not making hay,
Well a love 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 poems to say
with her own dark hair and her own name there
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.
For i have 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 the day.
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020516
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