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.