Today I come to sing…to praise.

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 the 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.

– Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, Leaves of Grass

Whitman