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!"