“Oh, to be alive in such an age, when miracles are everywhere, and every inch of common air throbs a tremendous prophecy, of greater marvels yet to be.”

“(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?”

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.”

“Songs of myselfThese are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing, If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing. This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is, This the common air that bathes the globe.”

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

“If the wind will not serve, take to the oars. To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle.”