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 of the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowing hinge in my hand puts scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions infidels.
By
Walt Whitman, 1819-1892
Let
me go wherever I will.
I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that's fair, from all that's foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.
It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There always, always something sings.
It is not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cup of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There always, always something sings.
By
Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882