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-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.”

[Sonnet 19, Milton]

lacrimamrerum

lacrimamrerum

lacrimamrerum

O blessèd age of gold! Not that the rivers rolled With milk, or that the woods wept honeydew; Not that the ready ground Produced without a wound, Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew; Not that a cloudless blue Forever was in sight, Or that the heaven…

The golden age was first, when man, yet new, No rule but uncorrupted reason knew: And, with a native bent, did good pursue. Unforced by punishment, unawed by fear, His words were simple, and his soul sincere; Needless was written law, where none oppressed:…

"Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as a sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow..."