To ----

A poem by Frances Anne Kemble

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.

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