[After W. E. Henley]
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!
