Before we drank the margaritas, my friend Tony handed me a photocopy of Walter Pater's essay on Coleridge. And now, a week later, I have finally opened it . . . to this remark:

But on Coleridge lies the whole weight of the sad reflection that has since come into the world, with which for us the air is full, which "the children in the marketplace" repeat to each other.

I have no idea what this sentence is trying to tell me; but despite the two "which" clauses, it's beautiful and it feels true, whatever true means. At the moment I'm defining it as "like an overcast morning in a bare forest."