YKK ( y 4)

I believed that 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'ouvre 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 depressed head surpasses any statue
And a mouse is miracle enoug 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

Walt Withman -- song of myself