Lonely

The walls have seemed to say to me Where have the sticky fingers gone That always found their way to me, And left their prints to gaze upon. The halls have worn a gloomy air And seemed like tunnels, dark and black, And it has seemed that every chair Has asked me when they're coming back. The stairs have seemed to speak to me Each night as I have climbed alone, And pitifully squeak to me: 'Where have the little people flown?' The beds all smooth and sternly kept Have said with faces drawn and white Where are the curly heads that slept On us, so sweetly, every night? The untouched toys have stared at me As if to say the days are long, And all their dolls have glared at me As though accusing me of wrong. And every rug so straight and stiff Has seemed to sigh for rumpling feet, And worn a sorry look as if It missed the mud-tracks of the street. The bird has twittered low to me A sort of solemn, sad refrain As though he tried to show to me He wishes they were near again. But soon the walls and halls and chairs Will know once more the charm they lack, And little feet will race the stairs, They've sent me word they're coming back.