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
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 around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the
rest me intertwined;
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