It roe 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."