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 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 depress'd head surpasses any
statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of
infidels.
|
