Oh me! Oh 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?
Answer.
That
you are here—that life exists and identity,
That
the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
-Walt
Whitman