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!