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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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Present
Geraniums
Days
Nights
Books
Divided
Interest
Interests
Night
Library
Past
Garden
Book
Flower
Spend

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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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The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.
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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 the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.
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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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A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
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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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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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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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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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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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If you do your fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage - in praise or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste.
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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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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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The only thing a man knows is himself.
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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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