The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,
The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along,
Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song,
Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee:
How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed,
Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away
Light, life, and motion, and along its way
The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread,—
Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest
Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth,
The swollen waters once again gush forth,
Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.