FROM  Song Of Myself
BY WALT WHITMAN

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,

And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand and the egg of the wren,

And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,

And running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,

And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,

And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,

And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.