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;
Establishes the autumn setting of the poem and, through the verb “cling,” a mood of tension and urgency. 
 And now, a crimson vine interlude with light jazz: 

Luke Havergal