A Complaint
William Wordsworth
1770 to 1850
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There is a change—and I am poor;
Your love been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well love—it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of fond heart, hath made me poor.