So much of life is serendipity

That field where wayward deities still play,

Meting out their strange felicity

In fanciful and unexpected ways.

An apple falling from a laden branch;

A bath beset by water overflowed;

The scars of cowpox on a milkmaid’s hands;

Blue streaks of mold on Petri dishes old;

Fortuity is more than whims of gods—

In chance alone, few miracles are seen,

Sagacious minds perceive the seeming odd

As truths once veiled, now lit in sudden gleam.

Where one may see a stick of little worth—

Another sees a pry to move an earth.