"Quicksand years"

I've been thinking on paper about the corrosive effect of politics on humanity.  Some of those thoughts here and here.  Today, while seated on a rock in Central Park as my wife sat next to me absorbing the first few pages of The Westing Game, I read Walt Whitman's "Quicksand years that whirl me I know not wither":

Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither,

Your schemes, politics, fail – lines give way –substances mock and elude me;

Only the there I sing, the great and strong – posess'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, death – what at last finally remains?

When shows break up, what but one's-self is sure?