Busy the far, the sunlit panorama, Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North, Cotton and rice of the South and Louisianian cane, Open unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, And many a stately river flowing and many a jocund brook, And healthy uplands with herby-perfumed breezes, And the good green grass, that delicate miracle the ever-recurring grass.
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?
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The infection is less likely to recur if you finish all the recommended antibiotics.