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Yesterday I was talking to someone about how all inclusive miracles are for the singers of life. And what better a singer to sing this than Walt Whitman:  



 MIRACLES

1  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 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 a sum-
         mer 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.

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.

5  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?

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