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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Merry
Holiday
Holds
Christmas
Together
Time
Xmas

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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.
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We bury love Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
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The pleased sea on a white-breasted shore-- A shore that wears on her alluring brows Rare shells, far brought, the love-gifts of the sea, That blushed a tell-tale.
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We are never happy we can only remember that we were so once.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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Each time we love,We turn a nearer and a broader markTo that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.
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Vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts as sufficient reward for its services a kind word or an approving smile.
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My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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If the egotist is weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a possession of the race.
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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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Pride's chickens have bonny feathers, but they are an expensive brood to rear. They eat up everything, and are always lean when brought to market.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.
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