Whitman in London.
Oh, site of Coldbath Fields Prison!
Oh, eight and three-quarter acres of potential Park for the plebs;
I gaze at you; I, Walt, gaze at you through cracks in the black hoarding,
Though the helmeted blue-coated Bobby dilates to me on the advantages of moving on.
I marvel at the stupidity of Authorities everywhere.
I stand and inhale a playground, which in a week or two will be turned into a Post Office by Government orders!
Instead of plants growing here, bricks will be planted.
Instead of girlhood, boyhood playing here, cash will be counted, stamps will be affixed (savagely) by the public, and letters weighed when the young women have time, and also inclination, to do so.
I, from the wild Western Continent, wilder myself, weep for this Park soon to be devoured.