Working in an office kind of sucks, if only because my fingers, hand, wrist, arm, shoulders, and upper back are killing me. This pain is discouraging me from doing the extra-curricular poeting that I should be doing, which made me think of poor John Milton, dictating Paradise Lost to his daughter after going blind. I guess I shouldn't complain... at least I get physio.
Sonnet XIX: When I Consider How my Light is Spent
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
Lodg'd 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."