Why, who makes much of miracles?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
or dart my sight over the roofs of houses towards the sky,
or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge
of the water,
or stand under trees in the woods,
or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in the bed at
night with any one I love.
or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer
for-noon,
or animals feeding in the fields,
or birds, or the wonderful insects in the air,
or the wonderfulness of sundown, or of stars shining
so quiet and bright,
or the exquisite delicate thin curve of a new moon in
Spring;
these with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
the whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
the same,
every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continuous miracle,
the fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves
- the ships with men in them,
what stranger miracles are there?
Miracles
Walt Whitman 1819 -1892