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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Befalls
Saddest
Loses
Faith
Woman
Soul
Thing

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The only thing a man knows is himself.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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Trees are your best antiques
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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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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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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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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 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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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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A man does not plant a tree for himself he plants it for posterity.
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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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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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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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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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Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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