Miracles

Hey, I’m not dead, I’m just crazy busy settling into Oregon plus I lost my laptop power cord which throws an additional wrench into things. (A new one is on its way, don’t worry.) Regular blogging will resume eventually. In the meantime, enjoy my favorite Walt Whitman poem.

Miracles
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?

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5 thoughts on “Miracles”

  1. I’m glad you shared this poem. When little ones come up with the term “It’s boring”….I like to remind them that their mind is full of wonderful things….like these miracles. Boring is a poor self image when we are so free to even just ponder the miracles!

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