Even at three-and-twenty, "he that believeth shall not make haste." Calm and open-eyed, he works to be ripe, and waits for the work that shall follow.
At forty-five, then, he writes thus concerning his blindness: When I consider how my life 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 _foolishly._ 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." That is, "stand and wait, ready to go when they are called." Everybody knows the sonnet, but how could I omit it?
Both sonnets will grow more and more luminous as they are regarded.
The following I incline to think the finest of his short poems, certainly the grandest of them.

It is a little ode, written _to be set on a clock-case_.
ON TIME.
Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race.
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace, And glut thyself with what thy womb devours-- Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross: So little is our loss! So little is thy gain! For whenas each thing bad thou hast entombed, And last of all thy greedy self consumed, Then long eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; _that cannot be divided-- And joy shall overtake us as a flood; [eternal._ When everything that is sincerely good, And perfectly divine With truth and peace and love, shall ever shine About the supreme throne Of him to whose happy-making sight alone When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb, Then, all this earthy grossness quit, Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit Triumphing over Death and Chance and thee, O Time.
The next I give is likewise an ode--a more _beautiful_ one.

Observe in both the fine effect of the short lines, essential to the nature of the ode, being that which gives its solemnity the character yet of a song, or rather, perhaps, of a chant.
In this he calls upon Voice and Verse to rouse and raise our imagination until we hear the choral song of heaven, and hearing become able to sing in tuneful response.
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
Blest pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ-- Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce-- And to our high-raised phantasy present That undisturbed song of pure concent[105] Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne To him that sits thereon, With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee; Where the bright seraphim, in burning row, Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow; And the cherubic host in thousand choirs, Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, With those just spirits that wear victorious palms, Hymns devout and holy psalms Singing everlastingly; That we on earth, with undiscording voice, May rightly answer that melodious noise-- As once we did, till disproportioned[106] Sin Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed In perfect diapason,[107] whilst they stood In first obedience and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song, And keep in tune with heaven, till God ere long To his celestial consort[108] us unite, To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light! Music was the symbol of all Truth to Milton.

He would count it falsehood to write an unmusical verse.