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,
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 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.'