The Whole Head Is Sick and the Whole Heart Is 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."