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 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 soirée—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?
VISAGES.
Of the visages of things—And of piercing through to the accepted hells
beneath.
Of ugliness—To me there is just as much in it as there is in
beauty—And now the ugliness of human beings is acceptable to me.
Of detected persons—To me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse
than undetected persons—and are not in any respect worse than I am
myself.
Of criminals—To me, any judge, or any juror, is equally criminal—and any
reputable person is also—and the President is also.