§35 1

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.

I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits,
      grains, esculent roots,
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
But call any thing back again when I desire it.

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
      monster slying 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.

1: From "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman