Abyat: English poems, one at a time

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 will contribute a verse.

What is our life? A play of passion,

Our mirth the music of division,

Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,

Where we are dressed for this short comedy.

Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,

That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.

Our graves that hide us from the setting sun

Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.

Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,

Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.