Miracles
Why, who makes much of a miracle? / As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Sounds of the Winter
❦
Sounds of the winter too,
Sunshine upon the mountains--many a distant strain
From cheery railroad train--from nearer field, barn, house,
The whispering air--even the mute crops, garner'd apples, corn,
Children's and women's tones--rhythm of many a farmer and of flail,
An old man's garrulous lips among the rest, Think not we give out yet,
Forth from these snowy hairs we keep up yet the lilt.
More poems by Walt Whitman
Darest Thou Now O Soul
Darest thou now O soul, / Walk out with me toward the unknown region,
Queries to My Seventieth Year
Approaching, nearing, curious, / Thou dim, uncertain spectre--bringest thou life or death?
Election Day, November, 1884
If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show, / 'Twould not be you, Niagara--nor you, ye limitless prairies--nor