“I believe in the flesh and the appetites; Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer; This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.”

“Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from; The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer, This head is more than churches or bibles or creeds.”

“The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer...”

“And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and can be none in the future,And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn'd to beautiful results,And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death,And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are compact,And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any.”

“This is the female form, vapor, A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot, It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction, I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heavaen or fear'd of hell, are now consumed, Mad filament, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable...”

“And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles”

“What shall I give? and which are my miracles?2. Realism is mine--my miracles--Take freely,Take without end--I offer them to you wherever your feet can carry you or your eyes reach.3. 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 anyone I love,Or sit at the table at dinner with my mother,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;Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--mechanics, boatmen, farmers,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.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?”