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.




The House on the Hill