Song of Myself

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork 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 of 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 a cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any
     statue.
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of
     infidels.