Classic Poem

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 unexpressed;
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.