Poem of Perfect Miracles

REALISM is mine, my miracles,

Take all of the rest—take freely—I keep

      but my own—I give only of them,

I offer them without end—I offer them to you

      wherever your feet can carry you, or your

      eyes reach.

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 the 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 an

      August forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

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

Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down—or of

      stars shining so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new-moonnew-moon in May,

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

Or among the savans—or to the soiree—or to

      the opera,

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

Or behold children at their sports,

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

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.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a

      miracle,

Every inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every cubic 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,

All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

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?