Once upon a time, John Milton wrote a sonnet.
Ere 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, 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."
This month, I wrote a "parody" if you will but an appreciative one, that attempted to honour in the remembrance, in the transposition from his circumstances to my own. I share the result with you here:
When I consider how my days are spent,
My troubles not like Milton's hamp'ring scourge,
To be effective in my Master's work
Has ever been my strongest deepest urge.
Yet my commitments mitigate against
Fulfillment (on the surface) of my calls
And trivialities extend to fill
My times -- this my own "ash heap" me appalls.
No more than in the blinded poet's day
Does Papa dole rewards out from effect.
His plans rest not on this or that task done.
His goal, it seems: our natures to perfect.
Will my life's fruit show earlier or late?
Still even they serve now who stand and wait.
