Anglers boast of the innocence of their pastime; yet it puts fellow-creatures to the torture. They pique themselves on their meditative faculties; and yet their only excuse is a want of thought.
Central depth of purple, Leaves more bright than rose, Who shall tell what brightest thought Out of darkness grows? Who, through what funereal pain, Souls to love and peace attain? - Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt
Wit is the clash and reconcilement of incongruities; the meeting of extremes round a corner.
Christmas is the glorious time of great Too-Much.
Those who have lost an infant are never, in a way, without an infant.
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