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 —
Compare P. B. Shelley,  “Ode to the West Wind”: 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! 
 Shelley’s image is one of prophetic inspiration: he is asking the divine “wind” or breath to animate his ideas and carry them across the world. 
 Whatever the leaves are “saying” here (perhaps as reminders of past words between lovers?) will be unavailable to Luke Havergal’s understanding.
Luke Havergal