John Milton. 1608–1674
On His Blindness
When I consider how
my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and
wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more
bent
To serve therewith
my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
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 milde yoak, they serve him best, his
State
Is Kingly. Thousands
at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.