I see miracles

Down on this earth, the works of God, (1)


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
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?

Walt Whitman


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