Sonetos & Sansón agonista
Soneto XIX
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
Lodge 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.»