“Trippers and askers surround me,People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward andcity I live in, or the nation,The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors oldand new,My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or lossor lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,the fitful events;These come to me days and nights and go from me again,But they are not the Me myself.Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog withlinguists and contenders,I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. ”

“Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.”

“The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to your nevertheless,And filter and fibre your blood.Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,Missing me one place, search another,I stop somewhere waiting for you.”

“I celebrate myself, and sing myself,And what I assume you shall assume,For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.I loafe and invite my soul,I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.32. I think I could turn and live with animals, they're so placid and self-contained,I stand and look at them and long.They do not sweat and whine about their condition.They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins.They do not make me sick discussiong their duty to God,Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,Not one is respectable or unhappy over the earth.52. The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and loitering.I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.”

“One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself, / And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten / million years, / I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.”

“(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?”