When I consider how my light is spent <br />Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, <br />And that one talent which is death to hide <br />Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent <br />To serve therewith my Maker, and present <br />My true account, lest he returning chide, <br />"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" <br />I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent <br />That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need <br />Either man's work or his own gifts: who best <br />Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state <br />Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed <br />And post o'er land and ocean without rest: <br />They also serve who only stand and wait."<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-his-blindness/
