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.