by Walt Whitman
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?
life: acoustic & amplified 