QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither, <br /> Your schemes, politics, fail--lines give way--substances mock and <br /> elude me; <br /> Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd Soul, eludes <br /> not; <br /> One's-self must never give way--that is the final substance--that out <br /> of all is sure; <br /> Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life--what at last finally <br /> remains? <br /> When shows break up, what but One's-Self is sure?<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/quicksand-years/
