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 takes attention.
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.
’Twould 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.