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."
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."
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