Innumerable as the stars of night,

Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun

Impearls on every leaf and every flower.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book v. Line 745.

Sweet is every sound,

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;

Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,

The moan of doves in immemorial elms,

And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): The Princess. Part vii. Line 203.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan which moves

To that mysterious realm where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878): Thanatopsis.