The walls have seemed to say to me <br />Where have the sticky fingers gone <br />That always found their way to me, <br />And left their prints to gaze upon. <br />The halls have worn a gloomy air <br />And seemed like tunnels, dark and black, <br />And it has seemed that every chair <br />Has asked me when they're coming back. <br /> <br />The stairs have seemed to speak to me <br />Each night as I have climbed alone, <br />And pitifully squeak to me: <br />'Where have the little people flown?' <br />The beds all smooth and sternly kept <br />Have said with faces drawn and white <br />Where are the curly heads that slept <br />On us, so sweetly, every night? <br /> <br />The untouched toys have stared at me <br />As if to say the days are long, <br />And all their dolls have glared at me <br />As though accusing me of wrong. <br />And every rug so straight and stiff <br />Has seemed to sigh for rumpling feet, <br />And worn a sorry look as if <br />It missed the mud-tracks of the street. <br /> <br />The bird has twittered low to me <br />A sort of solemn, sad refrain <br />As though he tried to show to me <br />He wishes they were near again. <br />But soon the walls and halls and chairs <br />Will know once more the charm they lack, <br />And little feet will race the stairs, <br />They've sent me word they're coming back.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lonely-223/
