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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
Bury
Weep
Grass
Dead
Grows
Thing
Love
Forgetful
Like
Forgetfulness

More quotes by Alexander Smith

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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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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place today, it is vain to seek it there tomorrow. You can not lay a trap for it.
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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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To bring the best human qualities to anything like perfection, to fill them with the sweet juices of courtesy and charity, prosperity, or, at all events, a moderate amount of it, is required,--just as sunshine is needed for the ripening of peaches and apricots.
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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 no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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An old novel has a history of its own.
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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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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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Yet through all, we know this tangled skein is in the hands of One, Who sees the end from the beginning: He shall unravel all.
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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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Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.
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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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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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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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Eternity doth wear upon her face the veil of time. They only see the veil, and thus they know not what they stand so near!
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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