A Considerable Speck

A Considerable Speck

by Robert Frost (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Frost) (1874-1963)

A speck that would have been beneath my sightOn any but a paper sheet so whiteSet off across what I had written there.And I had idly poised my pen in airTo stop it with a period of inkWhen something strange about it made me think,This was no dust speck by my breathing blown,But unmistakably a living miteWith inclinations it could call its own.It paused as with suspicion of my pen,And then came racing wildly on againTo where my manuscript was not yet dry;Then paused again and either drank or smelt,With loathing, for again it turned to fly.Plainly with an intelligence I dealt.It seemed too tiny to have room for feet,Yet must have had a set of them completeTo express how much it didn't want to die.It ran with terror and with cunning crept.It faltered: I could see it hesitate;Then in the middle of the open sheetCower down in desperation to acceptWhatever I accorded it of fate.I have none of the tenderer-than-thouCollectivistic regimenting loveWith which the modern world is being swept.But this poor microscopic item now!Since it was nothing I knew evil ofI let it lie there till I hope it slept.I have a mind myself and recognizeMind when I meet with it in any guiseNo one can know how glad I am to findOn any sheet the least display of mind.