Quicksand Years. by Walt Whitman
QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, failâ€”lines give wayâ€”substances mock and elude me;
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possessâ€™d Soul, eludes not;
Oneâ€™s-self must never give wayâ€”that is the final substanceâ€”that out of all
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, lifeâ€”what at last finally remains?
When shows break up, what but Oneâ€™s-Self is sure?