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?