chance
by chance, letting the chance of free association and random words guide me, i stumbled upon an author i was unfamiliar with, an author whom it appears was as remarkable and admirable a person as she may have been an author (not having had any real opportunity to investigate the latter as yet, i cannot opine). an author named helen hunt jackson. an author who used the simple penname h.h. and yet, i think, from looking around, that it is mere chance that her name mirrors that of the actress helen hunt, one of my favorite artists. nonetheless, apropos, h. h.'s poem entitled chance:
these things wondering i saw beneath the sun:
that never yet the race was to the swift,
the fight unto the mightiest to lift,
nor favors unto men whose skill had done
great works, nor riches ever unto one
wise man of understanding. all is drift
of time and chance, and none may stay or sift
or know the end of that which is begun.
who waits until the wind shall silent keep,
will never find the ready hour to sow.
who watcheth clouds will have no time to reap.
at daydawn plant thy seed, and be not slow
at night. god doth not slumber take nor sleep:
which seed shall prosper thou shalt never know.
these things wondering i saw beneath the sun:
that never yet the race was to the swift,
the fight unto the mightiest to lift,
nor favors unto men whose skill had done
great works, nor riches ever unto one
wise man of understanding. all is drift
of time and chance, and none may stay or sift
or know the end of that which is begun.
who waits until the wind shall silent keep,
will never find the ready hour to sow.
who watcheth clouds will have no time to reap.
at daydawn plant thy seed, and be not slow
at night. god doth not slumber take nor sleep:
which seed shall prosper thou shalt never know.