Out of the grave I come to tell you this,—­
Out of the 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 the 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 that 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 HIGHWAYMAN:  ALFRED NOYES

1

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—­
                    Riding—­riding—­
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

2

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace
    at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle:  his boots were up to the thigh! 
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
                    His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

3

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was
    locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
                    Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

4

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter;
                    The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—­

5

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
                    Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

6

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement!  His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
                    (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,)
Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped
    away to the West.