He Cries Out Against Love

  There are three fine devils eating my
    heart—­
  They left me, my grief! without a thing;
  Sickness wrought, and Love wrought,
  And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe.
  Poverty left me without a shirt,
  Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering;
  Sickness left me with my head weak
  And my body miserable, an ugly thing.
  Love left me like a coal upon the floor,
  Like a half-burned sod that is never put out.
  Worse than the cough, worse than the fever
    itself,
  Worse than any curse at all under the sun,
  Worse than the great poverty
  Is the devil that is called “Love” by the people.
  And if I were in my young youth again
  I would not take, or give, or ask for a kiss!