A Complaint

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!
Bless'd was I then all bliss above!
Now, for this 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.