E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve there with my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd,
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 milde 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 waite.
The poem ends with the narrator’s final reflection: vindication of the his personal passivity.
Sonnet 19: When I Consider How My Light Is Spent