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 a wren,
And the tree-toad is the 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.
And I guess I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer’s girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and baking shortcake.
(Walt Whitman, Songs of Myself 31)