Quicksand Years

  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-possessd soul, eludes not,
  Ones-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 Ones-Self is sure?