A poor old Widow in her weedsSowed her garden with wild-flower seedsNot too shallow, and not too deep,And down came April -- drip -- drip -- drip.

Up shone May, like gold, and soonGreen as an arbour grew leafy June.

And now all summer she sits and sewsWhere willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows,Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet,Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbitBrown bee orchis, and Peals of BellsClover, burnet, and thyme she smellsLike Oberon's meadows her garden isDrowsy from dawn to dusk with bees.

Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs,And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyesAnd all she has is all she needs --A poor Old Widow in her weeds.

Peacock Pie, Walter de la Mare

If a man who cant count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?

Stanisław Lem