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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Deeply
Garden
Desire
Human
Seated
Humans
Gardens
Heart
Liking
Gardening
Complexity

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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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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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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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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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Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.
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Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his asides.
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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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The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.
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Nature never quite goes along with us. She is somber at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.
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The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.
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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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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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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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