A COMPLAINT
THERE is a change–and I am poor; Your love hath been, not long ago, A fountain at my fond heart’s door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did: not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count! Blest was I then all bliss above! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 10 What have I? shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love–it may be deep– I trust it is,–and never dry: What matter? if the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. –Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. 1806.