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.
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Comments1WOW, THIS POEM REALLY HIT ME. "DEATH COMETH, AND I LEAVE SO MUCH UNTROD." THAT PARTICULAR LINE STAYED WITH ME SINCE I FIRST READ IT AS A KID. THE IMMENSENESS OF LIFE AND THE WORLD AROUND US IS SOMETHING WE CAN NEVER FULLY GRASP, NO MATTER HOW MUCH WE TRY. I'VE ALWAYS BEEN MOVED BY THE BEAUTY IN THIS PIECE. IT'S A REMINDER OF HOW HUGE THE UNIVERSE IS, AND HOW SMALL WE ARE IN COMPARISON. STILL, IT GIVES ME HOPE. IT'S A THOUGHTFUL AND HUMBLING PIECE THAT REACHES INTO THE CORE OF OUR HUMAN EXPERIENCE.