Dare any of you lovers out there, forget that St. Valentine’s Day, is on Tuesday next, February 14th.

Talking of people in recent history, who fell in love, let’s not forget the sadly unrequited* love story of that great Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967), and Ms Hilda Moriarty in 1944.

* Unrequited love occurs when one person yearns for unconditional love, from another individual who doesn’t always feel the same way.

It was sometime in the Autumn of 1944, while living on Raglan Road, in Ballsbridge, Co. Dublin, that the poet Kavanagh spotted Ms Hilda Moriarty, herself a native of Co. Kerry, as she wended her way to attend Dublin City University, where she was studying to become a medical doctor.

Ms Moriarty was then 22yrs old, while Kavanagh was some 20 years her senior. For Kavanagh, it was love at first sight, and though she would regarded him as a close friend, her true feelings toward him were never of a romantic nature.

In 1947 Hilda would marry the handsome Mr Donogh O’Malley, a rugby union player, who later served as Parliamentary Secretary to the then Minister for Finance (1961 to 1965); Fianna Fáil Minister for Health (1965 to 1966), and Minister for Education (1966 to 1968). It was the same O’Malley who first announced the notion of free education for Irish students, on September 10th, 1966, unknown to his cabinet colleagues; thus updating Ireland’s antiquated educational system, same unchanged since Irish independence.

Sometime later, Kavanagh was inspired to write the poem, that we refer to, today, as, “On Raglan Road”, published in the Irish Press in 1946, under the title, “Dark Haired Miriam Ran Away”. Kavanagh’s poem was later set to the melody of an old Irish song called, “Fainne Gael an Lae”; (Irish loose translated, “The Dawning of the Day”).

On Raglan Road.

Lyrics: Irish Poet and Novelist, Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967).
Vocals: Singer, Folk Musician, Banjoist and Actor, the great Luke Kelly (1940 – 1984).

On ‘Raglan Road’ of 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 fallen 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 worth of passion play.
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, (I did not) 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.

END