From the first hour the heavens were made
Unto the last, when all shall fade,
Count—if thou canst—the drops of dew,
The stars of heav'n and streams that flow,
The falling snow, the dropping show'rs,
And in the month of May, the flow'rs,
Their scents and colours, and what store
Of grapes and apples Autumn bore,
How many grains the Summer bears,
What leaves the wind in Winter tears;
Count all the creatures in the world,
The motes which in the air are hurl'd,
The hairs of beasts and mankind, and
The shore's innumerable sand,
The blades of grass, and to these last
Add all the years which now are past,
With those whose course is yet to come,
And all their minutes in one sum.
When all is done, the damned's state
Outruns them still, and knows no date.