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.