Shapes of Clay

If the wicked gods were willing

(Pray it never may be true!)

That a universal chilling

Should ensue

Of the sentiment of loving,—

If they made a great undoing

Of the plan of turtle-doving,

Then farewell all poet-lore,

Evermore.

If there were no more of billing

There would be no more of cooing

And we all should be but owls—

Lonely fowls

Blinking wonderfully wise,

With our great round eyes—

Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two,

As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo;

With regard to being mated,

Asking still with aggravated

Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?"