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.'