The whole point of science is to reduce the number of possibilities, to replace as many of them as posiible with probabilities.

A universe where anything is possible is not very interesting. A universe where everything is possible is chaotic.

As in poetry, rhyme, rhythm, and meter are self-imposed constraints that limit what the poem can say, but they also enhance and direct the value of what is said. Free verse has its place, but truth and beauty are focussed by structure and discipline. It has the additional advantage that the form is familiar and understood by the reader, its history and conventions shared by all.

Consider the Elizabethan sonnet: Three quatrains of alternating rhyme, in iambic pentameter (five feet of two syllables each, accent on the second syllable. All followed by a heroic couplet to drive the point home.

Three left jabs, and a right cross: a complex blend of profound human emotional truths, dissected with mathematical precision and icy logic. This is why Zeus gave us a brain. It's like watching a sunrise at sea. For a brief moment, you can almost convince yourself it all makes sense.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.