Woe for the young who say that life is long, Who turn from the sun-rising to the West, Who feel no pleasure and can find no rest, Who in the morning sigh for even-song. Their hearts, weary because of this world's wrong. Yearn with a thousand longings unexprest; They have a wound no mortal ever drest. An ill than all earth's remedies more strong. For them the fount of gladness hath run dry. And in all Nature is no pleasant thing; For them there is no glory in the sky, No sweetness in the breezes' murmuring: They say, 'The peace of heaven is placed too high, And this earth changeth and is perishing.' |