Quicksand Years That Whirl Me I Know Not Whither

QUICKSAND years that whirl me I know not whither,

Your schemes, politics, fail—lines give way—substan-cessubstances 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 sub-tancesubstance —that out of all is sure;

Out of politics, triumphs, battles, death—what at last finally remains?

When shows break up, what but One's-Self is sure?