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