Why,
who makes much of a
miracle?
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 toward 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 any one 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 forenoon,
Or
animals feeding in the
fields,
Or
birds, or the wonderfulness of
insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of
stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite
delicate thin curve of the
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,
To me
the sea is a continual
miracle,
The
fishes that
swim - the
rocks - the motion of the waves - the
ships with men in them,
What
stranger
miracles are there?
--Walt Whitman