 MIRACLE As to me, I know nothing else but miracles. Whether I walk on the streets of Manhattan, or dart my sight over the roofs of houses towards the sky, or wade with naked feet along the beach just on the edge of the water, or stand under trees and the woods, or talk by day with anyone I love, or sleep in a bed at night with anyone I love, or sit at a table at dinner with the rest, or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, or watch honeybees buzzing around a 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 tin cove of the new moon in spring. These, with the rest, one in all, are to me miracles, the whole referring, each yet distinct and in its place. To me, every hour of the light and dark is miracle, every cubic inch of space is a miracle, every yard of the cyphus of the oath 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 the men in them. What strange your miracles are there! And the poem, this recording, is in the public domain. Miracles by Walt Whitman, read for LibriVox.org by Amalor Mierniks. Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles. Whether I walk down the streets of Manhattan, or dart my sight over the roughs of houses towards 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 table at dinner with the rest, or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, or watch honeybees 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 sun down, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, of 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 the men in them. What stranger miracles are there? This recording is in the public domain. Miracles by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Ankela. Miracles by Walt Whitman. Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me 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 anyone I love, or sleep in the 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 honeybees 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. 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 on 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 the men in them. What stranger miracles are there? 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 anyone I love, or sleep in the 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 honeybees 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. 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 the men in them. What stranger miracles are there? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. 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 towards 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 table at dinner with the rest, or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, or watch honeybees 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. 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 the men in them, what stranger miracles are there? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Miracles by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Diane Wood. 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 anyone I love, or sleep in the 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 honeybees busy around the hive of a summer for noon, 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. 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 the men in them, what stranger miracles are there? 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 anyone I love, or sleep in the 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 honeybees busy around the hive of a summer for noon, 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 and 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 the men in them. What stranger miracles are there? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. 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 anyone I love, or sleep in the 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 honeybees 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. 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 the men in them. What stranger miracles are there? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Miracles by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage. 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 table at dinner with the rest, or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, or watch honeybees 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. 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 the men in them. What stranger miracles are there? 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 roost 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 anyone I love, or sleep in the 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 honeybees busy around the hive over summer for noon, or animals feeding in the fields, or birds of the wonderfulness of insects in the air, or the wonderfulness at the sundown, or of 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 at the surface of the earth is spread with the same. Every foot of the interior spawns 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 the men in them. What strange miracles are there? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Once upon a time, there was a star shining so quiet and bright, or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of a 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 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 the men in them. What stranger miracles are there? End of Miracles This recording is in the public domain. Miracles by Walt Whitman Read for LibriVox.org by Mark Wilson 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 anyone I love or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love or sit at the table at dinner with the rest or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car or watch honeybees 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 These with the rest one and all are to me miracles the whole referring yet each distinct 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 the men in them what stranger miracles are there end of poem this recording is in the public domain Miracles by Walt Whitman read for LibriVox.org by Sean McGahey ducktapeguy.net 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 towards 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 anyone I love or sleep in the bed at night with anyone I love or sit at a table at dinner with the rest or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car or watch honeybees 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 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 the men in them what stranger miracles are there end of poem this recording is in the public domain miracles by walt whitman read for leper vox dot org by teresia sepashie player 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 towards 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 anyone i love or sleep in the 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 honeybees busy around the hive of a summer for noon 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 these were 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 the men in them what stranger miracles are there this recording is in the public domain miracles by walt wetman redfieldrocks.org why who makes much of miracles as to me i know of nothing else but miracles whether i walk the streets of manhattan or dart my sight over the rows 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 wood or talk by day with anyone i love or sleep in the 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 honeybees busy around the hive of a summer for noon 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 when 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 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 the men in them what stranger miracles are there