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 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.”
Poet Bio
More By This Poet
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What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
The labor of an age in pilèd stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
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Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame,
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Methought I saw my late espoused saint
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My brother still bites his nails to the quick,
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So much hurt is forgotten with the horizon
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if time is queer/and memory is trans/and my hands hurt in the cold/then
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it hurts like never when the always is now,
the now that time won't allow.
there is no manner of tomorrow, nor shape of today
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My brother still bites his nails to the quick,
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So much hurt is forgotten with the horizon
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The beach belongs to none of us, regardless
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Wake up, greet the sun, and pray.
Burn cedar, sweet grass, sage—
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Remember, when you step into the arena of your life,
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sometimes I strain
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