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 leaves will whisper there of her, and some, Like flying -words, will strike you as they fall; But go, and if you listen, 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 I hat 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 the crimson leaves upon the wall Go, for the winds are tearing them away, Nor think to riddle the dead words they sav Nor any more to feel them as they fall- But go, and if you trust her she will call 1 here is the western gate, Luke Havergal- Luke Havergal.
Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine With him one day; and after soup and meat, And all the other things there were to eat, Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine And one with wormwood. Then, without a sign For me to choose at all, he took the draught Of bitterness himself, and lightly quaffed It off, and said the other one was mine.
And when I asked him what the deuce he meant By doing that, he only looked at me And smiled, and said it was a way of his. And though I knew the fellow, I have spent Long time a-wondering when I shall be As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is.