| I lit my purest candle close to my
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| Window, hoping it would catch the eye
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| Of any vagabond who passed it by
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| And I waited in my fleeting house
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| Before he came I felt him drawing near;
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| As he neared I felt the ancient fear
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| That he had come to wound my door and jeer
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| And I waited in my fleeting house
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| «Tell me stories,» I called to the Hobo;
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| «Stories of cold,» I smiled at the Hobo;
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| «Stories of old,» I knelt to the Hobo;
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| And he stood before my fleeting house
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| «No,» said the Hobo, «No more tales of time;
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| Don’t ask me now to wash away the grime;
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| I can’t come in 'cause it’s too high a climb,»
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| And he walked away from my fleeting house
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| «Then you be damned!» |
| I screamed to the Hobo;
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| «Leave me alone,» I wept to the Hobo;
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| «Turn into stone,» I knelt to the Hobo;
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| And he walked away from my fleeting house |