From Leaves of Grass
, by Walt Whitman
O me! O life
! of the question
s of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless
, of cities fill'd with the foolish
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
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds
I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwine
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 may contribute a verse.