Chapters 15
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1 Miracles - Read by ADD 2:12
Why, who makes much of a 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 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 honey-bees buzzing 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, tin cove of the new moon in spring.
These, with the rest, one and 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 a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle. Every 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?
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2 Miracles - Read by AM 2:02
Miracles by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Amalur Myrnix.
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 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 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, 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?
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3 Miracles - Read by ANC 1:44
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 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.
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?
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4 Miracles - Read by APC 2:00
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 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 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.
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?
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5 Miracles - Read by CG 1:48
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 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 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.
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?
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6 Miracles - Read by DJW 1:49
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 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.
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!
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7 Miracles - Read by JS 2:20
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 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 sun-down. 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?
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8 Miracles - Read by KF 2:20
Miracles by Walt Whitman. Read for LibriVox.org by Catherine Fitz. March 10, 2007, Sacramento, California.
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 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.
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?
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9 Miracles - Read by KRS 1:39
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 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.
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 The ships with the men in them. What stranger miracles are there?
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10 Miracles - Read by LB 2:06
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 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 full 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 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 strange miracles are there?
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11 Miracles - Read by LH 2:04
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 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 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 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 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?
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12 Miracles - Read by MJW 2:03
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 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 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.
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?
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13 Miracles - Read by SMM 2:08
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 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.
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?
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14 Miracles - Read by TSB 1:55
Why, who makes such 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 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.
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?
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15 Miracles - Read by ZHS 1:30
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 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 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 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.
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?