[00:01.28]On Raglan Road
[00:05.76]on an Autumn Day,
[00:10.23]I saw her first and knew
[00:20.18]That her dark hair
[00:25.00]would weave a snare
[00:31.19]that I might one day rue.
[00:40.80]I saw the danger,
[00:45.80]and I passed
[00:50.76]Along the enchanted way
[01:00.32]And I said let grief be a falling leaf
[01:09.94]At the dawning of the day.
[01:21.68]On Grafton Street in November,
[01:31.20]We tripped lightly along the ledge
[01:40.27]Of a deep ravine where can be seen
[01:50.80]The worst of passions pledged.
[02:00.54]The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts
[02:11.35]And I not making hay,
[02:22.11]oh I loved too much;and by such, by such
[02:34.54]Is happiness thrown away.
[02:42.54]
[02:47.16]I gave her gifts of the mind.
[02:55.26]I gave her the secret sign
[03:05.37]That's known to the artists who have Known
[03:15.18]the true Gods of Sound and stone.
[03:27.58]and word and tint without a stint.
[03:36.44]I gave her poems to say
[03:47.19]With her own name there and her own dark hair
[04:02.11]Like the clouds over fields of May.
[04:42.80]On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
[04:51.93]I see her walking now
[05:01.43]away from me,
[05:05.60]So hurriedly.
[05:11.74]My reason must allow,
[05:21.75]That I have loved,
[05:26.63]not as I should
[05:31.65]A creature made of clay.
[05:42.94]When the angel woos the playing loose
[05:55.38]here's wings at the dawn of day.

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