| When I consider how my light is spent | |
| Ere 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, 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 | 10 |
| Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state | |
| Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed | |
| And post o'er land and ocean without rest: | |
| They also serve who only stand and wait." | |