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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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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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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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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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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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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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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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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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.
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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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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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Thoughts must come naturally, like wild-flowers they cannot be forced in a hot-bed, even although aided by the leaf-mould of your past.
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