Quicksand Years

Quicksand Years

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?

( Walt
Whitman; From Leaves of Grass)