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Walt Whitman - Quicksand Years
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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?
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