Books by Whitman
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|