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-labor, 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." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE ELF-MAN by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS THE WAVES OF BREFFNY by EVA GORE-BOOTH IMPROMPTU LINES ON JULY FOURTH by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ONCE WITH DEATH NEAR by REBA MAXWELL AVERY RESERVES by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |