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About this Poem 

Composed sometime between 1652 and 1655, John Milton's "Sonnet 19 [When I consider how my light is spent]" grapples with the subject of the poet's blindness later in life, as well as his changing relationship with God. Many of Milton's best-known poems, including the epic work Paradise Lost, were composed through dictation, transcribed by others, including the poet's daughters and the English metaphysical poet Andrew Marvell.

When I Consider How My Light Is Spent

John Milton, 1608 - 1674
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
Lodged 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-labor, 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."

This poem is in the public domain.
 

This poem is in the public domain.
 

John Milton

John Milton

John Milton was born in London on December 9, 1608, into a

by this poet

poem
What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in pilèd Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a stary pointing Pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a
poem
Me thought I saw my late espousèd Saint   
  Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,   
  Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,   
  Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.   
Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
  Purification in the old Law did save,   
  And such, as yet
poem
In this Monody the author bewails a learned 
Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester 
on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, by occasion, foretells the 
ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come