O leave me, leave me, leave me,
Ye three wild fiends!'
The fiends stared down with greedy eye,
Fanning the chill air duskily,
'Twixt their hoods they stoop and cry:—
'Shall we smooth the path before you,
You old grey man?
Sprinkle it green with gilded showers,
Strew it o'er with painted flowers?
Shall we blow sweet airs on it,