Sometimes joy is compounded of many elements: a touch of sadness, a whimper of pain, a harsh word tenderly held until all its arrogance dies, the casting of the eye into the face that understands, the clasp of a hand that holds, then releases, a murmur of tenderness where no word is spoken, the distilled moment of remembrance of a day, a night, an hour, lived beyond the sweep of the daily round—joy is often compounded of many things.

from The Mood of Christmas