Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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?

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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