to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
in the twilight wait for what will come.
leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
flying words, will strike you as they fall;
go, and if you listen she will call.
the western gate, Luke Havergal—
there is not a dawn in eastern skies
rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
there, where western glooms are gathering,
dark will end the dark, if anything:
slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
hell is more than half of paradise.
there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
of a grave I come to tell you this,
of a grave I come to quench the kiss
flames upon your forehead with a glow
blinds you to the way that you must go.
there is yet one way to where she is,
but one that faith may never miss.
of a grave I come to tell you this—
tell you this.
is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
for the winds are tearing them away,—
think to riddle the dead words they say,
any more to feel them as they fall;
go, and if you trust her she will call.
is the western gate, Luke Havergal—