Hopeless Grief
Could weeping drown my woe.
Or smile with hope that future years
Might all untroubled flow.
The memory of the pleasant past
Might now some comfort bring.
But that's a thought too bright to last,
It flies on fleetest wing.
With hope of change my bosom glad
Might be, but hope is o'er;
The present is an earnest sad
Of sorrow yet in store.
March, 1826.