Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
166. 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 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.
// Whitman for Winter. /
1) Ugh, gut aliens. Uhoh, do I have the PMS? 2) "Hey, do I seem extra snarky or grumpy today? Oh, I do? Hmm." 3) *calculate time since last period*…
Ohai LJ. Merry Xmas and Happy New Year and all that jazz. If you want me again look for me
under your boot-soleson Facebook or wherever…
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