Children of the Night

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.