Walt Whitman - Miracles lyrics

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?