The poem
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.