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On Raglan Road |
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on an Autumn Day, |
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I saw her first and knew |
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That her dark hair |
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would weave a snare |
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that I might one day rue. |
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I saw the danger, |
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and I passed |
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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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oh I loved too much;and by such, by such |
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Is happiness thrown away. |
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I gave her gifts of the mind. |
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I gave her the secret sign |
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That's known to the artists who have Known |
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the true Gods of Sound and stone. |
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and word and tint without a stint. |
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I gave her poems to say |
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With her own name there and her own dark hair |
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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 |
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away from me, |
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So hurriedly. |
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My reason must allow, |
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That I have loved, |
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not as I should |
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A creature made of clay. |
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When the angel woos the playing loose |
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here's wings at the dawn of day. |