A pebble etched by the moss
  Lay drenched by the end of the stream
  That snaked through the secluded dell
  And failed to reach the turbulent ocean.
  How lucky it was to be ignored,
  But also how much quiet grudge it'd nurtured,
  Enduring the insignificance
  Of a nongem
  That in fact a real emerald.
  But at least 'twas in the dell;
  That was a hundred times luckier
  Than the constantly trampled cobblestone.