The Whole Head Is Sick and the Whole Heart Faint

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 evensong.
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."