When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world
and wide,
And that one talent which is death
to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my
soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning
chide,
"Doth God exact day labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask; by Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth
not need
Either man's work or his own gifts;
who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him
best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding
speed
And post o'er land and ocean without
rest.
They also serve who only stand and
wait."
(Note: by 1662 Milton was completely blind.) |
