…from the quills of the dead white poets
Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)
Quicksand years that whirl me I know not wither,
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?