Sparkling Christmas Quotes

She stood upon a continent of ice, which sparkled between sea and sky, endless and dazzling, as though the world kept all its treasure there; a scale which balanced poetry and prayer.

A good editor is like tinsel to a Christmas Tree...they add the perfect amount of sparkle without being gaudy.

The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas time. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. Not to mention the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It threw its shadow across them as she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice. Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms. She chanced a sideways look at him. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the winter pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. He looked like what he was—a hungry, tired vampire. Well, she thought. Almost like old times. “More people to buy presents for,” she said. “Plus, the always traumatic what-to-buy-someone-for-the-first-Christmas-after-you’ve-started-dating question.” “What to get the Shadowhunter who has everything,” Simon said with a grin. “Jace mostly likes weapons,” Clary sighed. “He likes books, but they have a huge library at the Institute. He likes classical music …” She brightened. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. “What would you give someone who likes to play the piano?” “A piano.” “Simon.” “A really huge metronome that could also double as a weapon?” Clary sighed, exasperated. “Sheet music. Rachmaninoff is tough stuff, but he likes a challenge.” “Now you’re talking. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. “What about you? What are you giving Isabelle?” “I have absolutely no idea,” Simon said. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets. “Oh, come on. Isabelle’s easy.” “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Simon’s brows drew together. “I think. I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it. The relationship, I mean.” “You really have to DTR, Simon.” “What?” “Define the relationship. What it is, where it’s going. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend, just having fun, ‘it’s complicated,’ or what? When’s she going to tell her parents? Are you allowed to see other people?” Simon blanched. “What? Seriously?” “Seriously. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store that had once been a bank. It was massive on the inside, with rows of gleaming bottles everywhere. “And something unusual,” she said, heading for the fragrance area. “Isabelle isn’t going to want to smell like everyone else. She’s going to want to smell like figs, or vetiver, or—” “Figs? Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. It was her mother. where are you? It’s an emergency.

Decorate your holiday home with people that sparkle, not things that shine.

In the dark, the little live Christmas tree, two feet tall, sparkled with tiny coloured lights, like the tears I saw glistening in my brother's eyes.

Marie supposedly is still queen of a land where you can see sparkling Christmas Forests everywhere as well as translucent Marzipan Castles - in short, the most splendid and most wondrous things, if you only have the right eyes to see them with.

The month of December isn’t magical because it sparkles. It’s magical because it changes people’s hearts … at least momentarily.

Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused—in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened—by the recurrence of Christmas. There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away; that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes—of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who have lived long enough in the world who cannot call up such thoughts any day of the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire—fill the glass and send round the song—and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and empty it offhand, and fill another, and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse.

Christmas ribbons decked every crystal ball knocker on every sparkling door as far as the eye could see. Through the snowy streets of the Veiled Village, Echoes and Sounds rushed to and fro, their shimmering clothes looking like pouring rain or ice or waves. Before them multi-colored parcels fluttered like strange birds carried on small see-through wings, and every once in a while two parcels would collide and rain down gifts.

Shane's orgasmic contribution was an innovative and masterful variation on the theme of oh: “Oh...Oh...oh...oh...oh...oh...oh...oh...AH!” Stretching the waistband of my boxers I addressed the man downstairs, “make a note Mr Brown. Buy Dick and Shane a copy of The Penguin Anthology Of Orgasmic Utterances for Christmas: surprise and delight your partner, fuck buddies and neighbours with your sparkling and witty climactic repartee, you''l have them cumming back for more.

I used to think in my Russian-novel days, that I would cherish a lover who managed through thick and thin, snow and sleet, to have a bunch of Parma violets on my breakfast tray each morning--also rain or shine, Christmas or August, and onward into complete Neverland. Later, I shifted my dream plan--a split of cold champagne one half hour before the tray! Violets, sparkling wine, and trays themselves were as nonexistent as the lover(s), of course, but once again, Why not?

Almost every family has their own Christmas traditions (if, indeed, they celebrate Christmas) and we certainly had several. First, the house was thoroughly cleaned and decorated with wreaths and paper chains and, of course, the Christmas tree with all its sparkling lights and ornaments. The cardboard nativity scene had to be carefully assembled and placed on the mantle. And there was the advent wreath with its little windows to be opened each morning. And then there were the Christmas cookies. About a week before the holiday, Mom would bake several batches of the cookies and I invited all my friends to come and help decorate them. It was an “all-afternoon” event. We gathered around our big round dining table with bowls of colored icing and assorted additions—red hot candies, coconut flakes, sugar “glitter,” chocolate chips, and any other little bits we could think of. Then, the decorating began!

He brings out your sparkle,” said Mac. “That’s not sparkle,” Kate corrected. “It’s rage-glitter.

his damn eyes are sparkling like he inhaled Christmas decorations and they all lit up inside his head.

Every night is Christmas Eve on old East Main, Sailors and their sweethearts all agree. Neon signs of red and green Shine upon the friendly scene, Welcoming you in from off the sea. Santa's bag is filled with all your dreams come true: Nickel beers that sparkle like champagne, Barmaids who all love to screw, All of them reminding you It's Christmas Eve on old East Main.

Here, the name of the game was opulence. The floors were cherrywood, the tablecloths silk, and the guests sparkling with enough diamonds to send a Christmas tree into an epileptic seizure.

Hordes of people on the street, lighted Christmas trees sparkling high on penthouse balconies and complacent Christmas music floating out of shops, and weaving in and out of crowds I had a strange feeling of being already dead,

You're not mad at me?" she asked. He leaned to the side and placed a lingering kiss on her neck. "If I pretended I was, would you make it up to me?" Another kiss landed on the sensitive skin of her collarbone, testing the edges of the coveralls. "Um," Jenna stammered. "No." "No?" He leveled his eyes with hers. They sparkled with amusement. She tried to think, but her body had apparently decided her brain was a nonessential system and shut it down. "Yes?

Christmas has a dark side. It’s painful for those of us who lost loved ones during the holidays. What puts it back into sparkling perspective is knowing that Christ was born so that we might all be reunited again. That’s the real sparkle in Christmas.

Dusk had fallen, and when I stepped outside, I was drawn to the light spilling from the barn, golden and inviting. I poked my head in. Margaret had outdone herself. The long tables were covered in cream linen. Squash-colored tapers stood tall in sparkling silver candelabras. Fat bouquets of sunflowers, goldenrod, and black-eyed Susans stuffed into mason jars were surrounded by tiny pumpkins and crab apples. I looked up to see a thousand white Christmas lights hanging from the rafters. The whole room glowed.

She wore a dress of white satin, elegant and unusual in its simplicity, with no fussy ruffles and frills to distract from the lovely shape of her figure. Instead of wearing the traditional veil, she had drawn the sides of her hair up to the crown of her head and let the rest cascade down her back in long golden coils. Her only ornamentation was a tiara of graduated diamond stars, which Tom had sent upstairs that morning as a Christmas gift. The wealth of rose-cut gems glittered madly in the candlelight, but they couldn't eclipse her sparkling eyes and radiant face. She looked like a snow queen walking through a winter forest, too beautiful to be entirely human. And there he stood, with his heart in his fist.

Now she had words to dull her senses. English words, a new name, and covering it all like a warm blanket, a new life in amazing, immoderate, pulsating America. A sparkling new identity in a gilded immense new country. God had made it as easy as possible to forget him. To you, I give this, God said. I give you freedom and sun, and warmth, and comfort. I give you summers in Sheep Meadow and Coney Island, and I give you Vikki, your friend for life, and I give you Anthony, your son for life, and I give you Edward, in case you want love again. I give you youth and I give you beauty, in case you want someone other than Edward to love you. I give you New York. I give you seasons, and Christmas! And baseball and dancing and paved roads and refrigerators, and a car, and land in Arizona. I give it all to you. All I ask, is that you forget him and take it.

I’m not worried about tomorrow. I’m worried about right now, with you, under this Christmas tree.” Blake supported her neck as he laid her on the floor. Livia turned her head. “You’d better convince me. So far you’ve talked about the dog going to the bathroom, trash, and dirtiness.” Blake kissed her jaw and turned her head gently, kissing her mouth as she bit her lips together. “Can’t I just convince you with my manly ways?” He wiggled his eyebrows. He could, of course, do just that—but she shook her head. She loved the playful sparkle in his green eyes. His five o’clock shadow just made him more handsome, framing his kissable lips with scruff. “Okay.” He put his fingers at the bottom of her shirt, lifting it gently so he could circle her belly button with his index finger. “You’re the sexiest, most beautiful woman on this planet. So sexy, in fact, that I had to have you. I had to make you bear my children because my universe and yours had to be combined. Everything I’ve ever been needed to be buried inside of you, so deep, so full of love that we created life. Twice.” He lifted her shirt and kissed the tops of her breasts, whispering his devotion into her skin. “And it’s never enough. Unless I can hear you coming, I can’t think of anything else. All day every day. For years now. You’re that powerful, Livia. This. Us. It’s so intense that years haven’t cured me. I can’t stop wanting to make love to you.” “Wow.” Livia smiled and pulled his face back to hers, kissing him and effectively stopping his beautiful words.

A Party for New Year (for Lily and Maisie, the ladies what lunch.) Dear Lily, I have bought something frilly, to wear on New Year’s Eve. You may think it sounds rather silly, and, what I tell you, you will never believe. I met a woman in Primark, I know, not my normal shop. Just heard so much about it inside I had to pop. Well, the top I purchased, sparkles. The frills upon it abound. This woman I met in the changing room. On me, she said it looked sound. It's very, very silver you know. A little bit like Lametta. Oh Lily, I feel quite aglow. On no one could it look any better. Dear Maisie, Things are looking a bit hazy. A silver top, for New Year. Are you really, really that crazy? My word, you batty old dear. I'm wearing my old faithful. The black dress, with the gold trim. It's not like we’re doing anything special. In fact proceedings sound quite grim. Sitting on your old sofa With a Baileys, if I'm lucky. Watching the same old things on the box. I'm not excited Ducky. I want to be in the city and feel the atmosphere. It really is a pity that you want to stay right here. Dear Lily. Now you are being silly. What about your knees? Standing about, feeling chilly, and moaning you're going to freeze. Much better to stay indoors and watch a music show. We'll get the bongs at midnight. This you very well know. I don't have any Baileys. You drank it Christmas Day. But I found some cooking sherry. I want that out of the way. I even have some nibbles, so come on, what do you say? We'll have us a little party. Bring your nightie and then you can stay. Dear Maisie, Do you remember Daisy? Her with the wart on her ear. She thinks she'd like to join us to celebrate New Year. Do we really want her with us? She's quite a moaning Minnie. She always makes such a fuss. I'd hoped she'd celebrate with Winnie. I think I will come over Lil'. I'll even bring the wine. We really should start taking turns. Next year, you can come to mine. We'll have a great time, you and me. Go out in the cold? No fear. We'll be fine indoors, just you see. Friends together, celebrating New Year.

The sparkles that came from the firecracker are coffee crumbles!" Originating in Ireland, Crumbles are a baked dessert generally consisting of fruits topped with a crumbly crust. The crumbly mix can be made with rolled oats, crushed almonds and even crushed coffee beans! "How refreshingly tart! I can taste a faint hint of grated tangerine zest. Its fruity flavor pairs exceedingly well with the mildly sweet, clean flavor of the cake. And the hidden piece of the puzzle that ties them both together... ... is this cream that's coating the outer layer of bark!" "Man, you catch on fast! That's right. That's another variation on the cream I used as a filling for the center of the cake. I used that dark cream and thinned it into a brown cream that would melt at room temperature." "Oho! How clever. The crumbles, while sweet and delicious, tend to have a very dry and, well... crumbly texture. Not so with this cake." The brown cream brought just the right amount of moisture to the crumbles... enough to prevent them from being dry but not so much that they lose their crispy crunch. Plus, it firmly ties the flavors of the crumbles and the cake itself into one harmonious whole! Now I see. "That must be the other reason why you chose not to use any dairy or added sugars in the cake! Either would have overwhelmed the coffee crumbles! But you wanted to emphasize their delicate flavors... the light flash and sparkle of their tartness and bitterness!" "Refreshing at first, with a full body... capped off with a flash of invigorating bitterness!" "This is a gem of a dish that will captivate everyone, young and old!

Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look... Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile. All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms. And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time. And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint. Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.

The man was impossible. To her every retort,he had a counter. "A beak you may want to avoid for I will use it." His dimples turned into craters. "Aye, my lady,that you most certainly are not afraid of using. I think I actually see the small scars along your wrists and hands from where you missed your intended target and clipped yourself." Edythe opened her mouth,ready to send out another assualt, when the sparkle in his hazel eyes captured her attention. Tyr was not making fun of her. Rather,he was truly enjoying their conversation, and if she was being honest, so was she. Inclining her head in agreement, she curled her lips mischievously and said, "Inflictions all finches must learn to endure." "Indeed they must," Tyr replied with a bow. "You,Lady Finch,are a genuine surprise. These past few days,your elder sister has been gracious, kind, and all things a lady should be when welcoming a guest, but it seems that only my friend Ranulf can turn her into a fiery tempest. And each time she does, it pulls him farther in.I see now why he is susceptible to such treatment." Edythe briefly closed her eyes and gave a quick shake to her head. "You enjoy being insulted?" "You have not insulted me, you couldn't. You don't know me well enough.Nor I you. We just merely sparred and I am finding that I like wit in a woman, a most uncommon trait where I have been. If I were not so decided in my ways,you,dear Finch, would be in trouble." "Well,then I thank the Lord you are decided, for I am not easily swayed by a pretty face and you have a ways to go before you seem even moderately charming. And before you try to convince me otherwise,I must go see to Lily for she is looking overly animated and all too often the results of such excitement negatively affect me.Excuse me,sir." Tyr bowed and stared as Edythe left his side and headed toward her younger sister. He had not lied. She was probably the most intriguing woman he had ever encountered.But it changed nothing.Marriage was not for him. Still,a pretty redhead with a cunning mind and a sharp tongue would be fun to pass the time with until he had to leave.

24 Days Until Christmas In the days of restless thoughts – A bright light falls on my steps. Like a sparkle of a thousand pearls; An angel touched my lips.

Like a sparkle of a thousand pearls; an angel touched my lips.

I wish you a Merry Christmas sparkle with endless love, gladness and goodwill.

A footman approached bearing a tray of sparkling wine. Lord Sheffield motioned the footman away before he could offer them a glass of champagne. “Forgive me,” he murmured in Amelia’s ear. “I cannot wait another moment to have you in my arms.

Nutcrackers are brimming with magical powers. It’s long been said that if a wish is made at the exact moment a nut is being cracked, when the stars shine bright and the wind rustles his beard, and you can almost hear the sparkling of Christmas magic in the air all around, the nutcracker will grant the wish. Try it!

After three months of hard work and as many distractions as he'd been able to devise for himself, Tom still hadn't been able to put Lady Cassandra Ravenel out of his mind. Memories of her kept catching at the edge of his consciousness, sparkling like a tenacious strand of Christmas tinsel stuck in the carpet. He wouldn't have guessed in a million years that Cassandra would have come down to the kitchen to visit him. Nor would he have wanted her to. He'd have chosen far different circumstances, somewhere with flowers and candlelight, or out on a garden terrace. And yet as they'd crouched together on a dirty floor, soldering boiler pipes in a room full of kitchen maids, Tom had been conscious of an unfolding sense of delight. She had been so clever and curious, with a sunny energy that transfixed him.

The house was filled with Christmas joy and intoxicating expectations~ pies cooling on the window sill, mistletoe hugs and kisses, tree lights sparkling, music playing, screen door slamming with the coming and going of starry-eyed kids. Grandma had her boys, Mom had her brothers. And we had our two uncles to tease and play with. Everyone was happy.

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such kindness.” The countess’s eyes sparkled, as if she concealed a delightful secret. “Don’t you know, my dear? Really?” Campion stared at her, puzzled. “I didn’t save your dog.” “Perhaps not.” The countess smiled. “But I hope that you might save my son.” Oh,

Home would wait a few more days for him. It would not have changed. That was the last thought he could remember before Parkhurst turned to greet them, allowing Sebastian a peek at the young lady that was the center of all this male attention. He saw her all at once, but in that moment, it was as though his mind could comprehend her only in small pieces. Dark, silky hair, done up in intricate falling curls that touched against creamy soft shoulders. Her dress clung to the curves on her slim frame, making a man acutely aware of what was seen and what was unseen. Hooded eyes sparkling in the candlelight, a knowing smile painted on a full-lipped mouth that offered a hint of promise… hope for whispered conversation full of double meanings. And her voice… it was as familiar to him as a song, but somehow, he’d never heard it this way before. “Hello, Sebastian,” Susannah Westforth purred. Little no more. “Happy Christmas.

I’m the luckiest devil alive,” he muttered, his eyes dazed as if he couldn’t comprehend the extent of his good fortune. In that magical moment, Campion Parnell, poor, neglected, unloved, felt herself blossom into a woman capable of commanding nations with the merest hint of a smile. She drew herself up to her full height and extended her hand toward him. “I believe Lady Winterson has achieved another Christmas miracle in us, my lord.” “My darling, I—” She’d never seen him at a loss for words. That perilous lump of emotion lodged in her throat again, even as she told herself that she couldn’t cry here in public on the happiest night of her life. When Lachlan drew Campion aside, he attracted even more curious stares than he had arriving hand in hand with an unknown lady. “I want the world to know you’re mine.” “I am,” she murmured for his ears alone. The hand that he slid into his jacket wasn’t quite steady. He withdrew something small and glittering. “Say you’ll wear this tonight. And forever. Please.” The “please” touched her. But not quite as much as the sight of this supremely confident man regarding her with such agonized yearning in his green eyes. He extended the sparkling diamond ring toward her. “You’re certainly prepared,” she said huskily, staring at the ring without shifting forward. Tonight had been so packed with surprises. She became inured to marvels. “I intended to give it to you this afternoon,” he said in an undertone. “But you took to your heels before I had a chance.” Feeling as if a flaming torch burned inside her, she held her hand out in consent. “In future, I promise to stay and listen whenever you offer me diamonds.” “I’ll remember that.” His face alight with love, he slid the ring onto her finger. His shaking urgency made her realize anew that she wasn’t dreaming.

The Christmas lights—big red and green and blue lights the size of bell peppers—explode, two pops, then six pops, then fourteen in rapid-fire—filling the air with tiny clouds of glass powder, sparkling and seemingly motionless.

Hey Harper, where were you last night?” I turned to see him sitting on the kitchen counter, coffee mug in hand. My heart dropped when I looked into his gray eyes. I wanted to curl up in his arms and take back the last five months. “Uh, thought it’d be a little awkward considering.” I waved a hand over my stomach. “Oh, yeah.” His eyes stayed glued to my small round belly, “Yeah, I guess. How is that going?” “It’s good.” I said softly, watching his face carefully while I said the next words, “It’s going to be a boy.” One of the days when we were in Arizona for Christmas, I had been in the kitchen with his mom cooking barefoot. Brandon started teasing that all I needed now was to be pregnant, and it would be a perfect picture. I had thrown an oven mitt at him, which he dodged and brought back over to me, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my neck. He promised he’d been joking but said whenever we did have kids, he wanted a boy to name him after his dad. I hadn’t been ready to talk about marriage with him at that point, but in the joyful mood of that day I had laughed and promised to pop out a boy for him ASAP. Even through the laughing, he got a wide smile and his eyes sparkled. My heart squeezed at that memory. He blew out heavily and closed his eyes, probably remembering that day too. “That’s uh, that’s great Harper. I’m happy for you.” My

I’m a little embarrassed it took some city-boy preacher to get a project like this going in our own town,” Jack said. “We should’ve been on this. We start for Christmas right away. And then we get going on holiday baskets for next year in July. And, Hope, don’t be throwing any of your old weenies in the basket.” “You never know who’s in the mood for a weenie,” she said with a sparkle in her eye. “I would give anything to see the inside of that mausoleum you live in,” Jack muttered. “It’s filled to the ceiling with little cans of cocktail weenies,” she said. The

The Baxter house sparkled with multicolored lights and evergreen garlands draped with icicles. The piney scent of a real Christmas tree mixed with the aroma of cinnamon from the gingerbread cookies reminded me of . . . nothing. Christmas Eve was not like this in Cuba.

I wanted to kiss you,” she said as they waited for Sonnet to be brought out. “When I saw you this morning, whole and healthy. Did you want to kiss me?” In the bright morning sunshine, Louisa’s green eyes sparkled like spring grass wet with dew, and energy fairly crackled around her. And this magnificent, gorgeous woman—who was to be his wife—was confessing to a thwarted urge to kiss him. The grooms were busy in the stable, and the alley was deserted enough that Joseph could be honest. “I find, Louisa Windham-soon-to-be-Carrington, that I am constantly in readiness for your kisses. This state of affairs brings me back to boyhood Christmases, to the sense of excitement and… glee that hung over my holidays. As if delightful developments were always awaiting me.” He

Come home with me a little space And browse about our ancient place, Lay by your wonted troubles here And have a turn of Christmas cheer. These sober walls of weathered stone Can tell a romance of their own, And these wide rooms of devious line Are kindly meant in their design. Sometimes the north wind searches through, But he shall not be rude to you. We’ll light a log of generous girth For winter comfort, and the mirth Of healthy children you shall see About a sparkling Christmas tree. . . . And you may chafe the wasting oak, Or freely pass the kindly joke To mix with nuts and home-made cake And apples set on coals to bake. Or some fine carol we will sing In honor of the Manger-King. . . . These dear delights we fain would share With friend and kinsman everywhere, And from our door see them depart Each with a little lighter heart. Leslie Pinckney Hill

In the dark, the little live Christmas tree, two feet tall, sparkled with tiny colored lights, like the tears I saw glistening in my brother’s eyes.

I skip down the driveway, hurry up the road, linger on the bridge for a moment, looking down at the reflection of the sky like mercury on the dark water, the foaming white suds near the rocks. Ice glistens on tree branches, frost webs over dried grasses in a sparkling net. The evergreens, dusted with the light snow that fell last night, are like a forest of Christmas trees. For the first time, I am struck by the austere beauty of this place.

Though unaware of it at that moment, Missie had just made some friends for life. Not one of those men sitting round her tiny soddy would have denied her anything that was in their power to provide. There she sat, just a little scrap of a girlwoman, youthful and pretty, her cheeks glowing with health, her eyes sparkling near tears, her trim figure clothed attractively in a bright calico, the tiny fair-skinned, chubby-cheeked Nathan contentedly in her arms studying her face. That picture was their Christmas gift, one they would remember all their lives.

Before you, I thought my life was perfect. I had family, community, a long life in a literal magical land, but I wasn't living--- not really. I had abundant time, so it had no value. When I almost lost you, I realized how meaningless time was when I couldn't be with you. You've shown me that a second lived with the right person is better than one hundred years alone. Now every moment is precious because I know its worth." He opened his hand to reveal a sparkling diamond ring that resembled a star or maybe even a snowflake--- she loved that it could be either. Set in white gold, a round center stone was surrounded by smaller pear-shaped diamonds that formed the points. "Will you do me the honor of making every second of my life priceless?

There was an excitability about him that seemed it could dissipate at any moment as though he were Christmas in July but rather than sporting holiday cheer and sparkling fireworks, he offered the showing of amateur eggnog hangover and explanations about the lack of permits to the fire department.

You can always tell if someone is kind because kindness is the sparkle inside their eyes.

She wanted to remind them that Christmas was more than just glitter and garlands—but that color and sparkle were a wonderful way to celebrate the real Joy of Christmas. And before she walked away, she lifted the baby Jesus and gave it a little kiss—just like she’d always done—and laid it in the manger.

The house party was collected in the ballroom already, and carraiges were arriving from all the great houses of the neighbourhood. The Pemberley ballroom was fully equal to such gathering, and it looked its most beautiful, with hundreds of wax-candles sparkling in the great crystal chabdeliers, tge polished floor gleaming in readiness for the dance, and the holly decorations hanging in festoons from the walls, making a most festive Christmas appearance.

She loved the build-up, but somehow every year when Christmas finally arrived, the sparkle had burnt itself out. The actual holiday itself never seemed that enjoyable.

Maya is a grown-up Barbie doll with the soul of Linda Hamilton in Terminator.

know the difference between right and wrong. And when we intentionally do the wrong thing, we can feel our hearts crack. Because we can see it in the eyes of Santa.

I rather like the shape of the sheath dress," he said thoughtfully. "And corsets are a dastardly inconvenience when you're in a hurry...But I like them, I think, overall. It's like Christmas. The presents with the tight knots and sparkling wrappers are by far the most exciting to unwrap.

The surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed colorlessly cold. The air seemed armed, and full of sharp, eager points that pricked the skin painfully. The great tree-trunks cracked their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath their bark.

May you life be sparkle with love, joy and hope.

The surface of the snow sparkled with crystals that flashed colorlessly cold. The air seemed armed, and full of sharp, eager points that pricked the skin painfully. The great tree-trunks cracked their sharp protests against the frosty entrances being made beneath their bark. The lake, from under the smothering ice, roared in dismay and pain, and sent the thunders of its wrath at its imprisonment around the resounding shores.

she fully understood the meaning of joy. Sparkle might have his magic snowball that could save Christmas, but the true magic—the only one that really mattered—was love.

With means, if more than a little diminished means, of his own Ethan had done what his father before him, likewise a lawyer, had done, and had once in days past counselled him to do before it was too late, before this might spell an irrevocable retirement. He made a Retreat. (To be sure he had not been bidden so far afield as had his father, who’d spent the last year of peace before the First World War as a legal adviser on international cotton law in Czarist Russia, whence he brought back to his young son in Wales, or so he announced, lifting it whole out of a mysterious deep-Christmas-smelling wooden box, a beautiful toy model of Moscow; a city of tiny magical gold domes, pumpkin- or Christmas-bell-shaped, sparkling with Christmas tinsel-scented snow, bright as new silver half-crowns, and of minuscule Byzantine chimes; and at whose miniature frozen street corners waited minute sleighs, in which Ethan had imagined years later lilliputian Tchitchikovs brooding, or corners where lurked snow-bound Raskolnikovs, their hands stayed from murder evermore: much later still he was to become unsure whether the city, sprouting with snow-freaked onions after all, was intended to be Moscow or St. Petersburg, for part of it seemed in memory built on little piles in the water, like Eridanus; the city coming out of the box he was certain was magic too—for he had never seen it again after that evening of his father’s return, in a strange astrakhan-collared coat and Russian fur cap—the box that was always to be associated also with his mother’s death, which had occurred shortly thereafter; the magic bulbar city going back into the magic scented box forever, and himself too afraid of his father to ask him about it later—though how beautiful for years to him was the word city, the carilloning word city in the Christmas hymn, Once in Royal David’s City, and the tumultuous angel-winged city that was Bunyan’s celestial city; beautiful, that was, until he saw a city—it was London—for the first time, sullen, in fog, and bloodshot as if with the fires of hell, and he had never to this day seen Moscow—so that while this remained in his memory as nearly the only kind action he could recall on the part of either of his parents, if not nearly the only happy memory of his entire childhood, he was constrained to believe the gift had actually been intended for someone else, probably for the son of one of his father’s clients: no, to be sure he hadn’t wandered as far afield as Moscow; nor had he, like his younger brother Gwyn, wanting to go to Newfoundland, set out, because he couldn’t find another ship, recklessly for Archangel; he had not gone into the desert nor to sea himself again or entered a monastery, and moreover he’d taken his wife with him; but retreat it was just the same.)

IT WAS CHRISTMAS night, the eve of the Boxing Day Meet. You must remember that this was in the old Merry England of Gramarye, when the rosy barons ate with their fingers, and had peacocks served before them with all their tail feathers streaming, or boars’ heads with the tusks stuck in again—when there was no unemployment because there were too few people to be unemployed—when the forests rang with knights walloping each other on the helm, and the unicorns in the wintry moonlight stamped with their silver feet and snorted their noble breaths of blue upon the frozen air. Such marvels were great and comfortable ones. But in the Old England there was a greater marvel still. The weather behaved itself. In the spring, the little flowers came out obediently in the meads, and the dew sparkled, and the birds sang. In the summer it was beautifully hot for no less than four months, and, if it did rain just enough for agricultural purposes, they managed to arrange it so that it rained while you were in bed. In the autumn the leaves flamed and rattled before the west winds, tempering their sad adieu with glory. And in the winter, which was confined by statute to two months, the snow lay evenly, three feet thick, but never turned into slush.