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
fool- ish 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?
Answer.
That you are here — that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a
verse.
