Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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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