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We have two lives The soul of man is like the rolling world, One half in day, the other dipt in night The one has music and the flying cloud, The other, silence and the wakeful stars.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Night
Cloud
Two
Rolling
Soul
Flying
Music
Clouds
Men
Silence
Life
Stars
Like
Half
World
Lives
Wakeful

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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
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In my garden I spend my days, in my library I spend my nights. My interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am in the present with the book I am in the past.
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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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Trees are your best antiques
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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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To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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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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It is not of so much consequence what you say, as how you say it. Memorable sentences are memorable on account of some single irradiating word.
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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 great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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The sun was down, And all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, Behold! the barren beach of hell At ebb of tide.
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The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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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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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death.
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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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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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