The Toothache

The Toothache автор William Henry Davies

New Poems (1907)

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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 - Tray, do not fret:
  Be patient and - sure cure - forget,'
I could not help cry out - The Devil!'

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