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
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