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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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Winter
Smote
Rain
Pines
Wind
Dismal
Lines
Harp
Comes
Harper
Harps
Thunder
Grand
Slanting

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I go into my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, while it vibrated only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and to the laugh of Eve. I see the pyramids building I hear the shoutings of the armies of Alexander.
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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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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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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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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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Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his asides.
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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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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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We have two lives The soul of man is like the rolling world, One half in day, the other dipt in night The one has music and the flying cloud, The other, silence and the wakeful stars.
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Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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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.
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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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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.
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Trees are your best antiques
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Vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts as sufficient reward for its services a kind word or an approving smile.
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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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