Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.

Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.

An earthly dog of the carriage breed; Who, having failed of the modern speed, Now asked asylum and I was stirred To be the one so dog-preferred

If one by one we counted people out For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long To get so we had no one left to live with. For to be social is to be forgiving.

There is the fear that we shan't prove worthy in the eyes of someone who knows us at least as well as we know ourselves. That is the fear of God. And there is the fear of Man -fear that men won't understand us and we shall be cut of from them.

We took risks. We knew we took them. Things have come out against us. We have no cause for complaint.