Too much wit makes the world rotten.

Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.

And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.