O me! O life!--of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish;
Of myself for ever 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
Of the poor results of all--of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around
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?