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