Morning-Glory

I lit my purest candle close to my
Window, hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond who passed it by,
And I waited in my fleeting house

Before he came I felt him drawing near;
As he neared I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer,
And I waited in my fleeting house

";Tell me stories,"; I called to the Hobo;
";Stories of cold,"; I smiled at the Hobo;
";Stories of old,"; I knelt to the Hobo;
And he stood before my fleeting house

";No,"; said the Hobo, ";No more tales of time;
Don't ask me now to wash away the grime;
I can't come in 'cause it's too high a climb,";
And he walked away from my fleeting house

";Then you be damned!"; I screamed to the Hobo;
";Leave me alone,"; I wept to the Hobo;
";Turn into stone,"; I knelt to the Hobo;
And he walked away from my fleeting house