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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
Thing
Love
Forgetful
Like
Forgetfulness
Bury
Weep
Grass
Dead
Grows

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The only thing a man knows is himself.
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My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.
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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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A man can bear a world's contempt when he has that within which says he's worthy. When he contemns himself, there burns the hell.
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If you do your fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage - in praise or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste.
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The greatness of an artist or a writer does not depend on what he has in common with other artists and writers, but on what he has peculiar to himself.
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If you wish to make a man look noble, your best course is to kill him. What superiority he may have inherited from his race, what superiority nature may have personally gifted him with, comes out in death.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
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There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
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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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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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We twain have met like the ships upon the sea, Who behold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet: One little hour! and then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam, To meet no more.
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