Miracles / Walt Whitman

OK, you would think that is a poem, and you happen to be right. This is the whole story: in English class we read the poem Miracles / Walt Whitman which I think is beautiful. Than, my teacher said that we need to write our own "Miracles" poem with the first two lines, plus the last line. So here is Walt Whitman's poem:

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 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?

This is mine:
Why! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know nothing of miracles.
To see the beach and the sand and the waves,
Or the book and the words,
Or to see feet running.
To laugh at jokes that the others make,
Or flour and water form some bread,
Or mother-daughter love,
Or to make music from the piano.
Or hike the mountains of the world,
Or learn the astronomy of this galaxy.
Or to see people healthier than I,
To feel hatred or love -
For those are miracles.
What stranger miracles are there?

What do you think?