- 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
- Lodg’d 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-labour, 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.”
John Milton.
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