See Miracles Every Day
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 anyone I love, or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
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 foot of the interior swarms with the same.
The fishes that swim–the rocks–the motion of the waves–the ships with the men in them,
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
What stranger miracles are there?