Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892. Leaves of Grass (1872)
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(184) 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,
And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at
the farmer's girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and
baking short-cake.
(185) I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss,
fruits, grains, esculent roots,
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,
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And have distanced what is behind me for good rea-
sons,
And call anything close again, when I desire it.
(186) In vain the speeding or shyness;
In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against
my approach;
In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd
bones;
In vain objects stand leagues off, and assume manifold
shapes;
In vain the ocean settling in hollows, and the great
monsters lying low;
In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky;
In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs;
In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods;
In vain the razor-bill'd auk sails far north to Labrador;
I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of
the cliff.