na direcção do
essas e outras
Walt Whitman, in "Leaves of Grass
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
Whether I walk the streets of Manhatan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feed 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 watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
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 new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every food of the
The fishes swim – the rocks – the motion of the waves – the ships with men in tem,
What stranger miracles