I think is a Walt Whitman's poem, but I don't know what is its name. Here is the poem:
The little one sleeps in its 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 bushy hill;
I peeringly view them from the top.
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bed-room;
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair—I note
where the pistol has fallen.
The blab of the pave, the 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, the clinking,
shouted jokes, pelts of snowballs;
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs;
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside,
borne to the hospital;
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall;
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star,
quickly working his passage to the centre of the crowd;
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes;
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sun-struck, or in fits;
What exclamations of women taken suddenly,
who hurry home and give birth to babes;
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here—
what howls restrain’d by decorum;
Arrests of criminals, slights,
adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips;
I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come, and I depart.
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