A Complaint
Robert Owens, William Wordsworth
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