What shall we count to cool our angry pride?
Ten chilly digits standing in a line?
Oh, wiser far to count ten circling stars
That lean upon blue space: they will decline
To lend themselves to bitterness or pain.
Or we might count ten muted leaves that fall
Bearing a freight of somber autumn rain —
Ten leaves that fall, one here, one distantly,
In leisurely submission to the ground.
Or ten flecked pebbles lying in a pool
So hushed by dawn that the air holds no sound
Of water-motion. Or count ten mortal men
Who have come forth by the red gate of birth
To meet the wind . . . to learn the tang of laughter . . .
To wonder . . . and return into the earth.
For having counted, slowly we can lift
Our eyes to look on him who has offended,
Saying, " How large and strange this life we live . . .
Was I enraged with you? . . . Well, that is ended . . . "

What shall we count to cool our angry pride?
Ten chilly digits standing in a line?
Oh, wiser far to count ten circling stars
That lean upon blue space: they will decline
To lend themselves to bitterness or pain.
Or we might count ten muted leaves that fall
Bearing a freight of somber autumn rain —
Ten leaves that fall, one here, one distantly,
In leisurely submission to the ground.
Or ten flecked pebbles lying in a pool
So hushed by dawn that the air holds no sound
Of water-motion. Or count ten mortal men
Who have come forth by the red gate of birth
To meet the wind . . . to learn the tang of laughter . . .
To wonder . . . and return into the earth.
For having counted, slowly we can lift
Our eyes to look on him who has offended,
Saying, " How large and strange this life we live . . .
Was I enraged with you? . . . Well, that is ended . . . "