The Good Conceit

A poem by Thomas William Hodgson Crosland

Out of the cloud that covers me
And blots the stars and seldom lifts,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my indubitable gifts.

Under the whip, upon the setts,
Men drive me many a galling mile;
My stock of editors' regrets
Would fill a barrow, but -- I smile.

Fast by this trade of wind and wit
I mean to hold till life be done,
And every year I stay in it
Finds, and shall find me, tugging on.

It matters not how stiff and sheer
The climb -- how difficult the sum,
I am the man they've got to hear!
I am the man that's bound to come!

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