Well, not everyone can use your poems, as noted above in The Arcadian rejection slip. Plus the editor is "yours faithfully," which really does seem a bit arcane and for which it is difficult to find a modern application. Anyway, this rejections reminds me of a birthday party I was at way a long time ago with a bunch of famous poets (one of them sort of famous; one of them actually very famous). As usual, I was bitching and moaning about being a writer, about how hard it is, and I mentioned that I thought it would be even more difficult to be a poet. Well, you'd have thunk I said I'd killed my mother with my bare hands in front of them. Both looked askance at me and then went on to rhapsodize about what a privilege and honor it was to be a poet. They tried to outdo each other in gratitude and humility about their great poetry fortune, meaning fate, not money. I guess they never had the tortured writing days (years) that I've had. Well, good for them. I wouldn't wish writing torture on anyone.