The Toothache

 

Last night, though I had fifty souls,
I had been bankrupt ere the day;
And all because this body slight
That ill maintained its spirit's light
Had made me swear my souls away;

 

Had sent them humming into hell:
And all because an ivory mite
Was by a nerve-surge pounded, bent,
And by fierce lightnings blasted, rent,
That made the force of Nature slight.

 

I never heard Love's voice sound harsh,
Until it sought to soothe this evil;
And when it said-"Pray, do not fret:
Be patient and-sure cure-forget,"
I could not help cry out-"The Devil!"