XVI <br /> <br />When I consider how my light is spent, <br />E're 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, least he returning chide, <br />Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, <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 milde yoak, they serve him best, his State <br />Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed <br />And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: <br />They also serve who only stand and waite.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-16-2/
