All of these and the sound of water

Water rushing---a line from a poem, one of mine I believe, one I can't find. A line that will resonate in my brain until I find the poem of it's origin. It could be a lost line, a line that I edited out--a line that didn't quite make the cut--one that likely found it's way to the Isle of Lost Lines--

I wonder what lines have washed along its shore, what words are wedged in the crevices of rock, slipped into an abandoned shell--do they eventually enjoy a symbiotic lifestyle with other bottom feeders, befriend lonely hermit crabs? Does all poetic detritus (regardless of poet) end up on the same isle? A cut line from a Shakespearean Sonnet next to Joe's limerick, a Whitman wedged between Molly's poem of teenage angst?This brings to mind the old adage,

One person's trash is another person's treasure

I like the thought of all of these lines in the same trash pile--bits and pieces perhaps forming new poems--a sort of poetic compost heap; ripe for growth.