} 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?

} That Music Always Round Me

That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long
    untaught I did not hear,
But now the chorus I hear and am elated,
A tenor, strong, ascending with power and health, with glad notes of
    daybreak I hear,
A soprano at intervals sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves,
A transparent base shuddering lusciously under and through the universe,
The triumphant tutti, the funeral wailings with sweet flutes and
    violins, all these I fill myself with,
I hear not the volumes of sound merely, I am moved by the exquisite
    meanings,
I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving,
    contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in emotion;
I do not think the performers know themselves—­but now I think
    begin to know them.

} What Ship Puzzled at Sea

What ship puzzled at sea, cons for the true reckoning? 
Or coming in, to avoid the bars and follow the channel a perfect
    pilot needs? 
Here, sailor! here, ship! take aboard the most perfect pilot,
Whom, in a little boat, putting off and rowing, I hailing you offer.

} A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to
    connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

} O Living Always, Always Dying

O living always, always dying! 
O the burials of me past and present,
O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever;
O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not, I am content;)
O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and
    look at where I cast them,
To pass on, (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind.

} To One Shortly to Die

From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you,
You are to die—­let others tell you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you—­there is no escape for you.