I am drenched with chilly raining."
Moved with pity at his plaining
For his melancholy plight.
Up I rose, with candle lighted,
Oped the door, and there, benighted,
Saw I Love, a little child,
In his hand a long-bow bearing,
Wings and quiver lightly wearing;
At his woeful look I smiled.
By the hearth my guest I seated,
With my hands his cold hands heated,
Wrung the dampness from his hair.
When his chill had all departed,
"Come," he said, as up he started
With expression debonair,
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