There lies a gloom on all things under Heaven—
A gloom portentous to the quiet men,
Who see no joy in being driven
Onwards from change, ever to change again;
Who never walk but on the beaten ways;
And love the breath of yesterdays;—
Men who would rather sit and sleep
Where sunbeams through the ivies creep,
Each at his door-post all alone,
Heedless of near or distant wars,