From Walt Whitman's "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 roof 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 anyone I love, or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love

Or sit at table 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 the 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 ...

Project Gutenberg - Walt Whitman

The Walt Whitman Archive