So the poem is like that. 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 there with my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, li
So the poem is like that. 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 there with my Maker, and pr
John Milton129Views