The Poem

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in the dark world and wide,
And that Talent which is death to hide
Lodged 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 mind yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his side bidding speed,
and post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who stand and wait.”
-John Milton
Did not get the poem on the first attempt, then read it again. A very nice poem somewhat of my type only.