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A speck that would have been beneath my sight
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.
A tiny dot that I wouldn't have noticed Except on a bright white sheet of paper It started to move across my writing. And I had lazily held my pen in the air To stop it with a dot of ink When something odd about it made me think, This wasn't just dust blown by my breath, But clearly a living tiny creature With its own desires and instincts. It stopped, suspicious of my pen, And then dashed away again To where my writing was still wet; Then it paused again and either drank or smelled— With disgust, as it turned to flee again. Clearly, I was dealing with an intelligent being. It seemed too small to have feet, Yet it must have had a complete set of them To show how much it wanted to survive. It ran in fear and crept with cleverness. It hesitated: I could see it pause; Then in the center of the open page It crouched down in desperation to accept Whatever fate I had in store for it. I don't have the overly sentimental Collective love That the modern world is embracing. But this poor tiny creature now! Since it was nothing I knew to be evil I let it stay there until I hoped it slept.
I have a mind myself and recognize Mind when I encounter it in any form No one can know how happy I am to see Even the smallest sign of mind on any page.