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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-
ces 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-
stance—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?

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