On his blindness.

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is deadth 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 deni´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 mild joke, 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.

MILTON (Sonneto)