Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
John Milton. 16081674318. 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 | 5 |
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 | 10 |
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. |