Whitman and the Meaning of Life

The poet Walt Whitman photographed in 1869, when he was about 50 years old.

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?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

That is one of my favorite poems. It was written by the man who I believe is easily America’s finest poet, Walt Whitman. Like any decent poem, it is a piece of philosophy that calls us to examine one of life’s great mysteries, and what mystery could be greater than the meaning of life itself? Continue reading