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.
4.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.
5.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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