Analysis of 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-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?