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Leaves of Grass (1871-72)
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MIRACLES.
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,
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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 my mother, |
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, |
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a sum-
mer forenoon,
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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;
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Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like
me best—mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
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Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to the
opera,
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Or stand a long while looking at the movements of
machinery,
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Or behold children at their sports, |
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the
perfect old woman,
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Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, |
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass; |
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, |
The whole referring—yet each distinct, and in its
place.
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2 To me, every hour of the light and dark is a mir-
acle,
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Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, |
View Page 103
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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; |
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men
and women, and all that concerns them,
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All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles. |
3 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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