- 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. But 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.'
ON HIS BLINDNESS (By: John Milton- 1608-1674)
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