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.

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