Quote

How beautiful the yesterday that stood Over me like a rainbow! I am alone, The past is past. I see the future stretch All dark and barren as a rainy sea.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Past
Rainbow
Like
Stood
Yesterday
Sea
Alone
Heartache
Dark
Rainy
Future
Barren
Beautiful
Stretch

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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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A man does not plant a tree for himself he plants it for posterity.
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A man can bear a world's contempt when he has that within which says he's worthy. When he contemns himself, there burns the hell.
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One never hugs one's good luck so affectionately as when listening to the relation of some horrible misfortunes which has overtaken others.
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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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Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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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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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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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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A man gazing at the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles in the road.
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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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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
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It is the sternest philosophy, but on the whole the truest, that, in the wide arena of the world, failure and success are not accidents, as we so frequently suppose, but the strictest justice.
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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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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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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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