5 votes

A Considerable Speck (Microscopic)

my favorite poem by Robert Frost
(oddly appropriate for the times)


A speck that would have been beneath my sight
On any but a paper sheet so white
Set off across what I had written there.
And I had idly poised my pen in air
To stop it with a period of ink
When something strange about it made me think.

This was no dust speck by my breathing blown,
But unmistakably a living mite
With inclinations it could call its own.

It paused as with suspicion of my pen,
And then came racing wildly on again
To 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 complete
To 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 sheet
Cower down in desperation to accept
Whatever I accorded it of fate.

I have none of the tenderer-than-thou
Collectivistic regimenting love
With which the modern world is being swept.
But this poor microscopic item now!
Since it was nothing I knew evil of
I let it lie there till I hope it slept.

I have a mind myself and recognize
Mind when I meet with it in any guise
No one can know how glad I am to find
On any sheet the least display of mind.

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to all aspiring poets out there good bad or indifferent...

Behold the standard bearer.

Don't feed the pandas. Ever.

Thanks for sharing

agreed - seeing any one/thing in the process of using it's mind to deliberate and find truth... is beautiful.

I seem to be wearing my "cynic" filter

I thought the poem was hysterical, with the punch line being how rare it is to find anything on a piece of paper that reflects the use of a brain.

Love or fear? Chose again with every breath.


So far on this thread (anyway) you're the only one that caught that :)

Its Frost vs collectivists and his frustration over what idiots they where (are).

It's not you. Everything is funny...

at 7:30 in the morning...

...also thanks for clarifying what these lines mean after having read them 800 times (self high-five to the face)

Don't feed the pandas. Ever.

Robert Frost could write a poem about anything...

...even a bug. Beautiful.

Don't feed the pandas. Ever.