“(I know, it's a poem but oh well).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 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 sun-down--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. 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; 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?”

“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?”

“To me, every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.”

“People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child—our own two eyes. All is a miracle.”

“It's not like that. If all i wanted was a whore, i could've taken my pick from the bimbos at school. Whether you like it or not, Dad, i'm in love with Miracle and i have every intention of marrying her if she'll have me.”

“What I have learned from the year past is something about miracles--miracles of healing and answered prayer and unexpected happy endings. Each came quietly and simply, on tiptoe, so that I hardly knew it had occurred.All this makes me realize that miracles are everyday things. Not only the sudden, great good fortune, wafting in on a new wind from the sky. They are almost routine, yet miracles just the same.Every time something hard becomes easier; every time you adjust to a situation which, last week, you didn't know existed; every time a kindness falls as softly as the dew; or someone you love who was ill grows better; every time a blessing comes, not with trumpet and fanfare, but silently as night, you have witnessed a miracle.”