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?
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?
"Milagres" (Tradução de Adriano Nunes)
Por que alguém se impressiona com um milagre?
Quanto a mim, não sei nada que não sejam milagres,
Se percorro as ruas de Manhattan,
Ou lanço a vista sobre as telhas dos lares na direção do céu,
Ou ando descalço ao longo da praia, junto à água,
Ou finco-me sob as árvores nas florestas,
Ou falo durante o dia com qualquer um que amo, ou durmo na cama à noite
com qualquer um que amo,
Ou me sento à mesa no jantar com os demais,
Ou olho pra os estranhos à frente de mim no carro,
Ou vejo as melífluas abelhas trabalhando em redor da colmeia numa manhã de verão,
Ou os animais se alimentando nos campos,
Ou as aves, ou as maravilhas de insetos no ar,
Ou as maravilhas do crepúsculo, ou das estrelas cintilando tão quietas e brilhantes,
Ou as exóticas, delicadas e finas curvas da lua nova na primavera;
Esses e além, um e todos, são para mim milagres,
Todo o referido e, contudo, cada um distinto em seu lugar.
Para mim cada hora de luz e treva é um milagre,
Cada centímetro cúbico do espaço é um milagre,
Cada jarda quadrada da superfície é feita de um,
Cada pé de suas profundezas repleto de um.
Para mim o mar é um contínuo milagre,
Os peixes que nadam-as rochas-o movimento das ondas-
os navios com os homens neles,
Que mais estranhos milagres há?
In: "The Walt Whitman Archive". The Walt Whitman Archive, edited by Ed Folsom and Kenneth M. Price, is published by the Center for Digital Research in the Humanities at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln under a Creative Commons License.
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