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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
Grand
Slanting
Winter
Smote
Rain
Pines
Wind
Dismal
Lines
Harp
Comes
Harper
Harps
Thunder

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The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.
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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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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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To bring the best human qualities to anything like perfection, to fill them with the sweet juices of courtesy and charity, prosperity, or, at all events, a moderate amount of it, is required,--just as sunshine is needed for the ripening of peaches and apricots.
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Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.
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To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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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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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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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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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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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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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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A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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