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Quicksand Years
by Walt Whitman


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?