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Miracles
By Walt Whitman
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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,
Every foot of the
interior swarms 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?
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Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Miracles
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