The pace even of falling leaves is measured,
And randomly like falling sparrows yet
Are counted; one, two, on the toilet floor,
Are desiccated, shrunk, as though to let
Enumerating eyes take up the tally,
Whose lists encompass everything there is,
Not His, but creature's, momentarily
Adrift, to count a leaf, the infinite's
Extent; and golden autumn much the same
Outside, in computation that's extended.
The prisoner, the outcast, upholds the name
Of man, is counted, not by man intended,
By God disposed to count the sum of men,
Whose lives detached like leaves drift downwards, end.