Walt Whitman

...I know 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 bed at night with anyone 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 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 in 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
miracles, every foot of the interior swarms
with miracles.