Part 4

"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.

And he was rich, -- yes, richer than a king, -- And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Two Octaves

Not by the grief that stuns and overwhelms All outward recognition of revealed And righteous omnipresence are the days Of most of us affrighted and diseased, But rather by the common snarls of life That come to test us and to strengthen us In this the prentice-age of discontent, Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame.

When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks down Upon a stagnant earth where listless men Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat, Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert, -- It seems to me somehow that God himself Scans with a close reproach what I have done, Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears, And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts.

Calvary

Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow, Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free, Stung by the mob that came to see the show, The Master toiled along to Calvary; We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee, Till his dimmed eyes for us did overflow; We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, -- And this was nineteen hundred years ago.

But after nineteen hundred years the shame Still clings, and we have not made good the loss That outraged faith has entered in his name. Ah, when shall come love's courage to be strong! Tell me, O Lord -- tell me, O Lord, how long Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross!

Dear Friends

Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do, Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say That I am wearing half my life away For bubble-work that only fools pursue. And if my bubbles be too small for you, Blow bigger then your own: the games we play To fill the frittered minutes of a day, Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill; And some unprofitable scorn resign, To praise the very thing that he deplores; So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will, The shame I win for singing is all mine, The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.

The Story of the Ashes and the Flame