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.