As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child
Half willing, half reluctant to be
And leave his broken playthings on
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
Leads us to rest so gently, that we
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or
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
flies with my hand.
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the
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 blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating
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 . . .