Dear, if I never saw your face again;
If all the music of your voice
were mute
As that of a forlorn and broken
lute;
If only in my dreams I might attain
The benediction of your touch, how vain
Were Faith to justify the
old pursuit
Of happiness, or Reason to
confute
The pessimist philosophy of pain.
Yet Love not altogether is unwise,
For still the wind would murmur
in the corn,
And still the
sun would splendor all the mere;
And I—I
could not, dearest, choose but hear
Your voice upon the breeze and see your
eyes
Shine in the glory of the
summer morn.
VICE VERSA.
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.
