Quicksand Years By Walt Whitman

Quicksand Years

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 is sure;
Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life–what at last finally
remains?
When shows break up, what but One’s-Self is sure?

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