I cannot count the pebbles in the brook.
 Well hath He spoken: "Swear not by thy head.
 Thou knowest not the hairs," though He, we read,
Writes that wild number in His own strange book.

I cannot count the sands or search the seas,
 Death cometh, and I leave so much untrod.
 Grant my immortal aureole, O my God,
And I will name the leaves upon the trees,

In heaven I shall stand on gold and glass,
 Still brooding earth's arithmetic to spell;
 Or see the fading of the fires of hell
Ere I have thanked my God for all the grass.