Miracles

1WHY! who makes much of a miracle?

2As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,

3Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

4Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

5Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water,

6Or stand under trees in the woods,

7Or talk by day with any one I love—or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,

8Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,

9Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

10Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,

11Or animals feeding in the fields,

12Or birds—or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

13Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of stars shining so quiet and bright,

14Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;

15Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best—mechanics, boatmen,

16 farmers,

17Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the opera,

18Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,

19Or behold children at their sports,

20Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman,

21Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,

22Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;

23These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

24The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its place.