Wherefore?
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
ever renewed;
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?