Miracles

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.

Walt Whitman

Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone

ROOTS and leaves themselves alone are these;
Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods, and from the pond-side,
Breast-sorrel and pinks of love—fingers that wind around tighter than vines,
Gushes from the throats of birds, hid in the foliage of trees, as the sun is risen;
Breezes of land and love—breezes set from living shores out to you on the living
sea—to
you, O sailors!
Frost-mellow’d berries, and Third-month twigs, offer’d fresh to young persons
wandering
out in the fields when the winter breaks up,
Love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are,
Buds to be unfolded on the old terms;
If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, color,
perfume, to
you;
If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall blanches and
trees.

Walt Whitman

To You.

LET us twain walk aside from the rest;
Now we are together privately, do you discard ceremony,
Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed to none—Tell me the whole story,
Tell me what you would not tell your brother, wife, husband, or physician.

Walt Whitman

Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone.

ROOTS and leaves themselves alone are these;
Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods, and from the pond-side,
Breast-sorrel and pinks of love—fingers that wind around tighter than vines,
Gushes from the throats of birds, hid in the foliage of trees, as the sun is risen;
Breezes of land and love—breezes set from living shores out to you on the living
sea—to
you, O sailors!
Frost-mellow’d berries, and Third-month twigs, offer’d fresh to young persons
wandering
out in the fields when the winter breaks up,
Love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are,
Buds to be unfolded on the old terms;
If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, color,
perfume, to
you;
If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall blanches and
trees.

Walt Whitman