Welcome back to The Daily Poem. I'm David Kern.

Today's poem by John Milton. It's high time that I read you some John Milton.

It's been 50-something episodes, and I have failed to do so, which is an oversight on my part.

John Milton lived from 1608 to 1674,

and is, of course, most famous for writing Paradise Lost.

As Harold Bloom wrote,

No poet since John Milton in English approaches his good eminence,

not Blake, Wordsworth, Whitman, Dickinson, Yates, Stevens.

Except for Shakespeare, no poet has been so influential.

From John Dryden to T.S. Eliot, Milton has been a provocation and a shadow.

Eventually, I'll read some Paradise Lost on here, and I'll probably read from Alicidus as well.

But today I'm going to read one of his sonnets, and Milton was one of the premier sonnet writers

of all time.

The sonnet that I'm going to read today, when I consider how my light is spent, was first

published in 1673, and Milton gave it number 19, but in the book it was published 16, and

Harold Bloom's anthology, it was actually

published as 17. So I'm not entirely sure which number you want to go with, but you can

do a little more research on that if you'd like. But we'll just call it when I consider how my

light is spent. So here it is. 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 there with my maker, and present my true account lest he returning chide. Doth God exact day labor,

light denied, I fondly ask, but patience to prevent that murmur, soon. a true account lest he returning chide. Doth God exact day labor?

...