( Cf. Stanza 27, “Song of Myself,” )
To be at all—what is better than that? I think if there were nothing more developed, the clam in its callous shell in the sand were august enough. I am not in any callous shell; I am cased with supple conductors, all over They take every object by the hand, and lead it within me; They are thousands, each one with his entry to himself; They are always watching with their little eyes, from my head to my feet; One no more than a point lets in and out of me such bliss and magnitude, I think I could lift the girder of the house away if it lay between me and whatever I wanted.