I wish there were muddy tracks on the floor And a door going shut with a slam; I wish there were thumb marks all over the door, And a hole in my pot of jam;
I wish there were tops and toys to fix,
A broken windown pane,
A little old wagon, a worn-out sled,
Out in the storm and the rain.
I wish there were little stockings to mend, A few little bumps to kiss, A little boy to school to send,
For never a day dare he miss.
I wish there were little boys to beg
For cookies or raisins or pie;
I wish my doughnuts would travel off
My pantry shelf, on the sly.
But the days of these little tasks are gone, The days of such care oppressed.
There's a heartache which only a mother will own, When her birds have all flown from the nest.
