Oldest known version of this page was edited on 2006-01-24 21:58:17 by PistosKa []
W | Poetry

Whitman, Walt

Quicksand Years

Quicksand years are 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-posses'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?

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W | Poetry