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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Men
Likings
Life
Marked
Grave
Graves
Road
Personal
Desire
Every

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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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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.
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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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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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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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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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Fine phrases I value more than bank-notes. I have ear for no other harmony than the harmony of words. To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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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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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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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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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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We bury love Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
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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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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.
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