There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, And in the twilight wait for what will come. The leaves will whisper there of her, and some, Like flying words will strike you as they fall; Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal - Luke Havergal. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skikes 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 may 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 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE RIVER by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE BIRD WITH THE COPPERY, KEEN CLAWS by WALLACE STEVENS ANTIMENIDAS by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE THE LAST MAN: CONCEALED JOY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |