QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither,
Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way, substances mock and
elude me,
elude me,
Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess’d soul, eludes
not,
not,
One’s-self must never give way—that is the final substance—
that out of all is sure,
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?