Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, <br />There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, <br />And in the twilight wait for what will come. <br />The leaves will whisper there of her, and some, <br />Like flying words, will strike you as they fall; <br />But go, and if you listen she will call. <br />Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal-- <br />Luke Havergal. <br /> <br />No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies <br />To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; <br />But there, where western glooms are gathering, <br />The dark will end the dark, if anything: <br />God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, <br />And hell is more than half of paradise. <br />No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies-- <br />In eastern skies. <br /> <br />Out of a grave I come to tell you this, <br />Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss <br />That flames upon your forehead with a glow <br />That blinds you to the way that you must go. <br />Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, <br />Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. <br />Out of a grave I come to tell you this-- <br />To tell you this. <br /> <br />There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, <br />There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. <br />Go, for the winds are tearing them away,-- <br />Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, <br />Nor any more to feel them as they fall; <br />But go, and if you trust her she will call. <br />There is the western gate, Luke Havergal-- <br />Luke Havergal.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/luke-havergal/
