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.
Philistine that I am, despite the moving content, I STILL am annoyed that the end of the line is not necessarily where a natural pause occurs. I hate reading poetry aloud. In fact, if one were to describe me with a phrase, it would definitely not be something to the effect of "the soul of a poet."
With all my complaining, this does stir my soul. Maybe the cry of patience. Maybe the reference to the easy yoke of the Lord. Maybe the hope.
May I present one of my favorite poems?
I've got an itch, a wretched itch,
No other itch could match it.
It itches in the one spot which
I cannot reach to scratch it.
Brilliant rhythm. Succinct. Poignant. I love Jack Prelutsky.