O Me! O Life!
O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities fill'd with the
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light--of the objects mean--of the
struggle ever renew'd;
Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see
Of the empty and useless years of the rest--with the rest me
The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?
That you are here--that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
--Walt Whitman (1819-1892)