(Jools' Annual Hootenanny 2021) | 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, yet I passed along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
(Jools' Annual Hootenanny 2021) | 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, yet I passed along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making 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 stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like 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 had loved not as I should a creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
På Raglan Road på en efterårsdag så jeg hende først og vidste
At hendes mørke hår ville væve en snare, som jeg måske en dag rue;
Jeg så faren, men jeg gik forbi den fortryllede måde,
Og jeg sagde, lad sorg være et faldet blad ved dagens dag.
På Grafton Street i november trippede vi let langs ledningen
Af den dybe ravine, hvor det kan ses værdien af lidenskabens løfte,
Dronning af hjerter gør stadig tærter, og jeg laver ikke hø
Åh jeg elskede for meget og ved sådan ved sådanne er lykke smidt væk.
Jeg gav hendes gaver af sindet, jeg gav hende det hemmelige tegn, der er kendt
Til de kunstnere, der har kendt de sande guder for lyd og sten
Og ord og farvetone uden stint for, at jeg gav hende digte at sige.
Med sit eget navn der og hendes eget mørke hår som skyer over felter i maj
På en stille gade, hvor gamle spøgelser mødes, ser jeg hende gå nu
Væk fra mig så skyndsomt min grund skal tillade
At jeg havde elsket ikke som jeg skulle en skabning lavet af ler
Når engelen woos den ler, han ville miste sine vinger på daggryen af dagen.