It Is Only A Little Planet, But

The World's In A Bad Way, My Man, And Bound To Be Worse Before It Mends; Better Lie Up In The Mountain Here Four Or Five Centuries, While The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean.

Death's A Fierce Meadowlark: But To Die Having Made / Something More Equal To The Centuries / Than Muscle And Bone, Is Mostly To Shed Weakness.

The Love Of Freedom Has Been The Quality Of Western Man.

I've Changed My Ways A Little, I Cannot Now Run With You In The Evenings Along The Shore, Except In A Kind Of Dream, And You, If You Dream A Moment, You See Me There.

We Have To Live Like People In A Web Of Knives, We Mustn't Reach Out Our Hands Or We Get Them Gashed.