Published Works In Whitman's Hand Life & Letters Commentary Resources Pictures & Sound About the Archive

contents   |   previous   |   next

View Page 279

24 — Poem of Perfect Miracles.

REALISM is mine, my miracles,

Take all of the rest—take freely—I keep          but my own—I give only of them,

I offer them without end—I offer them to you          wherever your feet can carry you, or your          eyes reach.

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 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 an          August forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

View Page 280

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 May,

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 inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is          spread with the same,

View Page 281

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?

contents   |   previous   |   next

Comments?

Published Works | In Whitman's Hand | Life & Letters | Commentary | Resources | Pictures & Sound

Support the Archive | About the Archive

Distributed under a Creative Commons License. Ed Folsom & Kenneth M. Price, editors.