Children of the night : a book of poems / Edwin Arlington Robinson [electronic text]

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.