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Rh

What shall I give? and which are my miracles?

Realism is mine—my miracles—Take freely, Take without end—I offer them to you wherever
 * your feet can carry you, or your eyes reach.

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 the table at dinner with my mother, 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;

Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like
 * me best—mechanics, boatmen, farmers,