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 for 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 enougth to
stagger sextillions of infidels.