A short analysis of the poem "Miracles" by Walt Whitman.

Miracles Poem Analysis
Owen White

Structure: The Poem contains three stanzas and forty lines. Most of the lines are contained in the first Stanza. The first stanza contains a list of different types of miracles, each line starting with “or”. There is no rhyme or pattern that the poem follows. Also the first word of each line is capitalized.

Content: The poem starts with a question. Then the narrator goes on to list things that he sees as miracles, everything. Once hes done listing he talks of how he every little space and object is a miracle to him. In the end the narrator talks of the sea and how its an endless miracle, and every part of it is a miracle. He finishes with another question and ask “What strange miracles are there?”.

Meaning: The poem’s meaning that the narrator is trying to get across is the everything in life is a miracle. From the list he talks of things that most people dismiss, like “standing under the trees in the woods”. Most people will stand there and then more on due to there being nothing of special about those trees. The world is filled with an endless number of things that a completely unique, no matter how much they may clone something else it will always be a miracle. The overall meaning of the poem is that we must learn to slow down and look around and enjoy the life we are living.

Relation: Everyday people walk by in a daze not noticing all the beauty and wonder around them. This poem reminds us to awaken and enjoy life.

by Walt Whitman
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


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 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,
Or among the savans–or to the soiree–or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old


Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
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


Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass–the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,

and all that concerns them,

All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

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?

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