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Leaves of Grass (1881-82)
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MIRACLES.
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,
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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,
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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,
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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,
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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,
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What stranger miracles are there? |
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