As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
    Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
    Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
    And leave his broken playthings on the floor
Still gazing at them through the open door,
    Nor wholly reassured and comforted
    By promises of others in their stead,
    Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;

So nature deals with us, and takes away
    Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
    Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 
    Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
    Being too full of sleep to understand
    How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

                                                Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

From Song of Myself, Section 8

The little one sleeps in the cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time and silently brush away 
       flies with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the
       brushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the 
        pistol has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles talk
        of the  promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, 
        the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of 
The hurrah for popular favorites, the fury of roused mobs . . .

                                                    Walt Whitman