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
I know of nothing else but miracles
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle
To me the sea is a continual miracle
The fishes that swim, the rocks, the motion of waves
Every hour of the light and dark is a miracle

Whether I 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 my mother
I know of nothing else but miracles
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive
Or animals feeding in the fields
Who makes much of a miracle
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle
To me the sea is a continual miracle
The fishes that swim, the rocks, the motion of waves
Every hour of the light and dark is a miracle
The wonderfulness of 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 miracles
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle
Every spear of summer grass is a miracle
Every face, every roof, every wave, every tree
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle

I know of nothing else

But miracles
