| Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875. |
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| J. Milton |
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| LXXI. On His Blindness |
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| 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 | 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. | |
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