Walt 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 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 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 a verse.


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