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.