Quicksand YearsQuicksand 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—thatout 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?
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—thatout 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?