Miracles
Why, who makes much of a miracle? / As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
As I Ponder'd in Silence
❦
As I ponder'd in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said,
Know'st thou not there is hut one theme for ever-enduring bards?
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers.
Be it so, then I answer'd,
I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance
and retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,
(Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last,) the
field the world,
For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul,
Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I above all promote brave soldiers.
More poems by Walt Whitman
I Hear America Singing
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, / Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
I Hear It Was Charged Against Me
I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions, / But really I am neither for nor against institutions,
A Noiseless Patient Spider
A noiseless patient spider, / I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,