Skip to main content
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.”


  • Activities
  • Living
  • Religion

Poet Bio

John Milton
John Milton, born in London, spent six years after graduating from Cambridge at his father’s country home reading the classics and writing poetry. Ardent about morals and politics, he wrote progressive tracts on divorce and freedom of the press, as well as pamphlets in support of Oliver Cromwell during England’s Civil War. Milton wrote Paradise Lost, one of the greatest epic poems in English, after he had gone completely blind. See More By This Poet

More By This Poet

More Poems about Activities

Browse poems about Activities

More Poems about Living

Browse poems about Living

More Poems about Religion

Browse poems about Religion Get a random poem