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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Ocean
Thousand
Upon
Complains
Shores
Shore
Complaining
Sea

More quotes by Alexander Smith

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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.
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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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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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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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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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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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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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.
Alexander Smith
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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.
Alexander Smith
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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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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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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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An old novel has a history of its own.
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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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We bury love Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
Alexander Smith
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To-day is always different from yesterday.
Alexander Smith
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
Alexander Smith