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 FIDDLING WOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOON by HAYDEN CARRUTH OVID, OLD BUDDY, I WOULD DISCOURSE WITH YOU A WHILE by HAYDEN CARRUTH A POEM FROM BOULDER RIDGE by JAMES GALVIN JOY (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A DAY IN BED by KATHERINE MANSFIELD BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |