Luke Havergal
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o 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 skiesTo 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 kissThat flames upon your forehead with a glowThat 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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