Quote

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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Sweet
Fragrance
Silence
Affects
Nature
Scent
Care
Stops
Wistfully
Music
Gates
Pulses
Come
Bars
Gazes
Like
Smell
Airy
Garden
Pulse

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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 great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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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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The pleased sea on a white-breasted shore-- A shore that wears on her alluring brows Rare shells, far brought, the love-gifts of the sea, That blushed a tell-tale.
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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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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 pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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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 the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
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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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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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If the egotist is weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a possession of the race.
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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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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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