Friday, October 30, 2009

"All I want is one lousy miracle! Is that too much to ask?"

Several days ago, Kalli Ko posted a poem I had never before read. I instantly loved it. It felt very apropos to my right now, and so I share it with you:

Miracles
by Walt Whitman

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 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 the rest,
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 the stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
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.
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?

[Title quote is from "Charly"]

1 comment:

Priscila said...

oh my gosh loved this poem

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Xo
Priscila

 
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