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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Singing
Rather
Song
Would
Remembered
Victory

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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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Pride's chickens have bonny feathers, but they are an expensive brood to rear. They eat up everything, and are always lean when brought to market.
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In my garden I spend my days, in my library I spend my nights. My interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am in the present with the book I am in the past.
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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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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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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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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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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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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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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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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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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
Alexander Smith
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
Alexander Smith