Quicksand Years That Whirl Me I Know Not Whither
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?