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We bury love Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Like
Forgetfulness
Bury
Weep
Grass
Dead
Grows
Thing
Love
Forgetful

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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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It is the sternest philosophy, but on the whole the truest, that, in the wide arena of the world, failure and success are not accidents, as we so frequently suppose, but the strictest justice.
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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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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In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.
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The globe has been circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has you may survey a kingdom and note the result in maps, but all the savants in the world could not produce a reliable map of the poorest human personality.
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How beautiful the yesterday that stood Over me like a rainbow! I am alone, The past is past. I see the future stretch All dark and barren as a rainy sea.
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A thought may be very commendable as a thought, but I value it chiefly as a window through which I can obtain insight on the thinker.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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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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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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Thoughts must come naturally, like wild-flowers they cannot be forced in a hot-bed, even although aided by the leaf-mould of your past.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
Alexander Smith