a sapsucking insect
Sometimes this choice company sits on the curbing that goes round the terrace at the elm-tree's foot, and then I envy every soul in it, — so tranquil it seems, so cool, so careless, so morrowless.
I am feeling a touch of performance anxiety. James Brewer has already knocked down my sense of agelessness a notch or two with the news that my brain is shrinking. Now I am subjecting myself to a test that might reveal me to be prematurely transforming into mental codger-hood.
Red o'er the forest glows the setting sun, / The line of yellow light dies fast away / That crown'd the eastern copse, and chill and dun / Falls on the moor the brief November day.
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