Jane's Poetry Book

There is a season of distress
When life is robbed of every charm,
When fortune's smiles no longer bless
Nor even dangers frowns alarm.
Tis when o'er hopes expiring thrill
The heart pours forth its requiem,
When pleasure's blithesome voice is still,
And bliss hath withered on the stem.

Lost Love & hope! your smiles are bright
As is the blush of early spring.
Your hues are fair - your plumes are light
But ever - ever on the wing.
Oh love is but a meteor beam
Which dances on life's stormy wave,
And hope is but a transient gleam,
Which lights us onward to the grave.

J Brooks. Poughkeepsie. Feb. 20. 1822

View in Jane's Manuscript Book

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Illustrated 1823 Night Before Christmas

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