Explore Poems GO!

Sonnet 19

Rating: 2.8

XIX

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
Read More

READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS OF THE POEM