Shapes of Clay

Down in the state of Maine, the story goes,

A woman, to secure a lapsing pension,

Married a soldier—though the good Lord knows

That very common act scarce calls for mention.

What makes it worthy to be writ and read—

The man she married had been nine hours dead!

Now, marrying a corpse is not an act

Familiar to our daily observation,

And so I crave her pardon if the fact

Suggests this interesting speculation:

Should some mischance restore the man to life

Would she be then a widow, or a wife?

Let casuists contest the point; I'm not

Disposed to grapple with so great a matter.

'T would tie my thinker in a double knot

And drive me staring mad as any hatter—

Though I submit that hatters are, in fact,

Sane, and all other human beings cracked.

Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance;

Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention;

In metaphysics I could ne'er advance,

And think it of the Devil's own invention.

Enough of joy to know though when I wed

I must be married, yet I may be dead.