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?