Quicksand Years. by Walt Whitman
QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail—lines give way—substances mock and elude me;
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess’d Soul, eludes not;
One’s-self must never give way—that is the final substance—that out of all
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life—what at last finally remains?
When shows break up, what but One’s-Self is sure?