XIX br br 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 Lodged 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.