Chance is stepping on a line,
Chance is playing games with time.
Chance is a wishing, yearning dream,
Chance is picking for its team.
Chance is never set in stone,
Chance is what leaves us alone.
Chance is living, dying well,
Chance is what can never tell.
Chance is daytime’s morning light,
Chance is the darkest of the night.
Chance is hope and asking please,
Chance is the chance you have with me.
Chance is what you get, or not,
Chance is all that I’ve forgot.
Chance is wanting to be loved,
Chance is getting pushed and shoved.
Chance is one more hour, day,
Chance is the way the game is played.
Chance is the ruler of the world,
Chance is the oyster’s shining pearl.
Chances are, this poem is great,
Chances are, way after I’m ‘Late’.
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Comments about this poem (Chance by Sandra Osborne )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Harold Hart Crane
(21 July 1899 – 27 April 1932)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(25 November 1890 – 1 April 1918)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967)
(1886 - 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
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