By John Milton (c. 1652)
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
Lodg’d 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.”
Originally published in Poems (1673) by John Milton. Public domain.
Analysis
Milton’s sonnet dramatizes a crisis of vocation: if blindness forecloses public service, what work remains? The octave voices anxiety in accounting terms — talent, account, chide — before the sestet offers a doctrinal correction through the personified “Patience.” The turn is theological and tonal: service becomes measured not by output but by obedience and endurance.
The closing aphorism has entered common speech, yet in context it is less resignation than liberation. Work is reframed as being rightly yoked, not constantly busy. The sonnet’s poise — strict form, supple argument — embodies the patience it commends, letting faith recalibrate ambition without denying its fire.