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?
More verses by Walt Whitman
- When I Read The Book
- On Journeys Through The States
- Long, Too Long America
- The Artilleryman's Vision
- Who Is Now Reading This?