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We are never happy we can only remember that we were so once.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Happy
Remember
Never
Happiness

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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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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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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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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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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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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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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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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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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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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.
Alexander Smith
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There is a certain even-handed justice in Time and for what he takes away he gives us something in return. He robs us of elasticity of limb and spirit, and in its place he brings tranquility and repose—the mild autumnal weather of the soul.
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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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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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Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
Alexander Smith
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
Alexander Smith
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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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The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.
Alexander Smith