WHEN I consider how my light is spent        
E're half my days, on this dark thread 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 Mother, and present                 
My true account, least she returning chide,        
Doth Mom exact day-labour, light deny'd,        
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent        
That murmur, soon replies, Mom needs not most        
Either man's work or her own gifts, who best           
Bear her milde yoak, they serve her best, her State        
Is as a Queen. Thousands at her bidding post        
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:        
They also serve who only stand and waite.        

John Popanover Milton, Sonnets