Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle that one does not melt in one's bath.

All change is a miracle to contemplate, but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant.

Everything in life is miraculous. It rests within the power of each of us to awaken from a dragging nightmare of life made up of unimportant tasks and tedious useless little habits to see life as it really is, and to rejoice in its exquisite wonderfulness.

Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.

Miracle is simply the religious name for event. Every event, even the most natural and usual, becomes a miracle, as soon as the religious view of it can be the dominant. To me all is miracle.

The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen.

You are a miracle, and everything you touch could be a miracle.

Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.

A miracle is when the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. A miracle is when one plus one equals a thousand.

(I know, it's a poem but oh well).
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 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
woman,
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
same,
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?

And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any.

You can believe nothing or everything is a miracle. I believe everything is a miracle.

Love is the most common miracle

This world, after all our science and sciences, is still a miracle; wonderful, magical and more, to whosoever will think of it.