They Serve Him Best

I've also seen this poem referred to as "On His Blindness": towards the end Milton could see gauzy, vague shapes and make out areas of light and dark, but that was all. For a writer and critic, even for run-of-the-mill bibliophiles like me, an unmitigated tragedy. He could dictate and have family members read out loud to him, but it put him in deep distress to have his profession and passion so hobbled.

I mostly read this so I could understand why my parents would always quote me the last line as we were in line at the bank or halfway through a long car ride. I don't even know if they would recognize the poem, but the line has become justly famous to anyone stuck in a holding pattern, caught in gridlock, waiting for the acceptance letter.

"When I consider how my light is spent"
John Milton

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.”