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. 
 ...  

 ... 

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 may never miss. 
 ... 

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,
 ... 
But go, and if you trust her she will call. 
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal --
 ... .