God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell in 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,—
THE CHORUS OF OLD MEN IN “ÆGEUS”
Ye gods that have a home beyond the world,
Ye that have eyes for all man's agony
Ye that have seen this woe that we have seen,—
Look with a just regard,
And with an even grace,
Here on the shattered corpse of a shattered king,
Here on a suffering world where men grow old
And wander like sad shadows till, at last,
Out of the flare of life,
Out of the whirl of years,
Into the mist they go,
Into the mist of death.
O shades of you that loved him long before
The cruel threads of that black sail were spun,