often to me they are alive after what custom has served
    them, but nothing more,
And often to me they are sad, hasty, unwaked sonnambules
    walking the dusk.

1860 1871

MIRACLES

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 ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

1856 1881

SPARKLES FROM THE WHEEL

Where the city's ceaseless crowd moves on the livelong day,
Withdrawn I join a group of children watching, I pause
    aside with them.

By the curb toward the edge of the flagging,
A knife-grinder works at his wheel sharpening a great knife,
Bending over he carefully holds it to the stone, by foot and
    knee,
With measur'd tread he turns rapidly, as he presses with light
    but firm hand,
Forth issue then in copious golden jets,
Sparkles from the wheel.
The scene and all its belongings, how they seize and affect me,
The sad sharp-chinn'd old man with worn clothes and broad
    shoulder-band of leather,
Myself effusing and fluid, a phantom curiously floating, now
    here absorb'd and arrested,
The group, (an unminded point set in a vast surrounding,)
The attentive, quiet children, the loud, proud, restive base of
    the streets,
The low hoarse purr of the whirling stone, the light-press'd
    blade,
Diffusing, dropping, sideways-darting, in tiny showers of
    gold,
Sparkles from the wheel.

1871 1871

TO A PUPIL

Is reform needed? is it through you?
The greater the reform needed, the greater the Personality
    you need to accomplish it.
You! do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, blood,
    complexion, clean and sweet?
Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and
    soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of
    desire and command enters with you, and every one is
    impress'd with your Personality?

O the magnet! the flesh over and over!
Go, dear friend, if need be give up all else, and commence
    to- day to inure yourself to pluck, reality, self-esteem,
    definiteness, elevatedness,
Rest not till you rivet and publish yourself of your own
    Personality.

1860 1860

UNFOLDED OUT OF THE FOLDS

Unfolded out of the folds of the woman man comes
    unfolded, and is always to come unfolded,
Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth is to
    come the superbest man of the earth,
Unfolded out of the friendliest woman is to come the
    friendliest man,
Unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman