Return to Tales from a draughty old fen
ON MY BLINDNESS
by
John Milton
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 were bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide:
'Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies,--'God does 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.
Return to Tales from a draughty old fen
