“Why, who makes much of a miracle? / As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, / Whether I walk the streets if Manhattan, / Or dart my sight over the roofs 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 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 the 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?”
–Walt Whitman, “Miracles” (1856)