Waite

I've been pretty busy lately, in my better moments I would say responsible, and consequently the blog has been languishing. But it's staleness is irritating me. I have lots of great pictures of Reuben that I'm hoping to post soon. But in the meanwhile, I'll leave you with this excellent poem by Milton that lately has often been in my head.


On His Blindness


WHEN I consider how my light is spent

E're 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, least he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'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 milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite.