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 that 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?

Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass