A Complaint — 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 heedOf its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!Bless'd was I then all bliss above!Now, for this consecrated FountOf 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 sleepIn silence and obscurity.—Such change, and at the very doorOf my fond Heart, hath made me poor.