A Complaint

A Complaint

by

There is a change--and I am poor;

Your love hath been, nor 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,

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.