Oh 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.

— Walt Whitman