Quicksand Years By Walt Whitman
QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail–lines give way–substances mock and
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess’d Soul, eludes
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
When shows break up, what but One’s-Self is sure?