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--that out
 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?