"I follow the women wherever they call, -- That's why I'm going to Tilbury Town. God knows if I pray to be done with it all, But God is no friend to John Evereldown. So the clouds may come and the rain may fall, The shadows may creep and the dead men crawl, -- But I follow the women wherever they call, And that's why I'm going to Tilbury Town." 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. The House on the Hill They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray The winds blow bleak and shrill: They are all gone away. Nor is there one to-day To speak them good or ill: There is nothing more to say. Why is it then we stray Around that sunken sill? They are all gone away, And our poor fancy-play For them is wasted skill: There is nothing more to say. There is ruin and decay In the House on the Hill: They are all gone away, There is nothing more to say. Richard Cory Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.