On His Blindness (Sonnet 19)

¹When I consider how my light is spent,

²Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

³And that one talent which is death to hide

⁴Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

⁵To serve therewith my Maker, and present

⁶My true account, lest He returning chide;

⁷"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"

⁸I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

⁹That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need

¹⁰Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

¹¹Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

¹²Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

¹³And post o'er land and ocean without rest:

¹⁴They also serve who only stand and wait."