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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421406" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On His Blindness</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=421406" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">When I consider how my light is spent<br>Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,<br>And that one talent which is death to hide<br>Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent<br>To serve therewith my Maker, and present<br>My true account, lest he returning chide,<br>"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"<br>I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent<br>That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need<br>Either man's work or his own gifts: who best<br>Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state<br>Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed<br>And post o'er land and ocean without rest:<br>They also serve who only stand and wait."</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+Milton">John Milton</a></strong></div>

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