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Raglan Road: Text: P. Kavanagh Melodie: Traditional

This poem describes the narrator's chance meeting and subsequent relationship with a woman he saw on Raglan Road one autumn day. He was drawn to her dark hair but sensed the relationship may end in sorrow. They spent a joyful time together walking along Grafton Street, but ultimately the narrator realizes he loved her too much for the relationship to last, and his love was not returned in equal measure. He sees her walking away from him, having lost his chance at love.

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147 views2 pages

Raglan Road: Text: P. Kavanagh Melodie: Traditional

This poem describes the narrator's chance meeting and subsequent relationship with a woman he saw on Raglan Road one autumn day. He was drawn to her dark hair but sensed the relationship may end in sorrow. They spent a joyful time together walking along Grafton Street, but ultimately the narrator realizes he loved her too much for the relationship to last, and his love was not returned in equal measure. He sees her walking away from him, having lost his chance at love.

Uploaded by

Alice
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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Raglan Road

Text: P. Kavanagh; Melodie: Traditional


On Raglan Road on an autumn day
I saw her first and new.
That her dark hair would weave a snare
that I may one day rue.
I saw the danger, 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 not making hay.
Well, I loved 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 reems of poems to say
with her own dark hair and her own name there
like the clouds over fields of May.
On a quiet 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 heel lose
his wings at the dawn of the day.

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