Luke Havergal

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, —

There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, —

And in the twilight wait for what will come.

The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some —

Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall;

But go, and if you trust her she will call.

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal —

Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies

To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;

But there, where western glooms are gathering,

The dark will end the dark, if anything:

God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,

And hell is more than half of paradise.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies —

In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this, —

Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss

That flames upon your forehead with a glow

That blinds you to the way that you must go.

Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, —

Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this —

To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,

There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.

Go, — for the winds are tearing them away, —

Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,

Nor any more to feel them as they fall;

But go! and if you trust her she will call.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal —

Luke Havergal.