by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869 - 1935)

Luke Havergal
Language: English 
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.]1 

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 may never miss. 
[Out of a grave I come to tell you this --
To tell you this.]1

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;]1
But go, and if you trust her she will call. 
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal --
[Luke Havergal]1.

J. Duke sets stanzas 1, 3-4

View original text (without footnotes)
1 omitted by Duke.

Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

Text added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:01:47
Line count: 32
Word count: 252