 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
203
The Good Conceit
Out of the cloud that covers me
And blots the stars and seldom lifts,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my indubitable gifts.
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.
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.
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!
The climb—how difficult the sum,
I am the man they've got to hear!
I am the man that's bound to come!
July 1899
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |