I want yous all a Merry Christmas, in addition to likewise a New Year's Day sum of miracles

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of naught else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade amongst naked feet along the beach simply inwards the border of the water,
Or stand upward nether trees inwards the woods,
Or speak yesteryear hateful solar daytime amongst whatever 1 I love, or slumber inwards the bed at nighttime
amongst whatever 1 I love,
Or sit down at tabular array at dinner amongst the rest,
Or await at strangers reverse me riding inwards the car,
Or sentry honey-bees busy unopen to the hive of a summertime forenoon,
Or animals feeding inwards the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects inwards the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining then repose
as well as bright,
Or the exquisite fragile sparse flexure of the novel satelite inwards spring;
These amongst the rest, 1 as well as all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, withal each distinct as well as inwards its place.

To me every sixty minutes of the calorie-free as well as black is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of infinite is a miracle,
Every foursquare yard of the surface of the the world is spread amongst the same,
Every human foot of the interior swarms amongst the same.
To me the bounding main is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motility of the waves--the
ships amongst men inwards them,
What stranger miracles are there?

-- Walt Whitman
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