Nothing isso dangerous as being too modern.One isapt to grow old-fashioned quite suddenly.

-Wilde, Oscar Fingal O'FlahertieWills
  Lord Markby. An Ideal Husband, act 2.

When Pearse summoned Cuchulain to his side, What stalked through the Post Office? What intellect, What calculation, number, measurement, replied? We Irish, born into that ancient sect But thrown upon this filthy modern tide And by its formless spawning fury wrecked, Climb to our proper dark, that we may trace The lineaments of a plummet-measured face.

-Yeats,W(illiam) B(utler)
  'The Statues', stanza 4. Collected in Last Poems (1939).