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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
More quotes by Alexander Smith
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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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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If you wish to make a man look noble, your best course is to kill him. What superiority he may have inherited from his race, what superiority nature may have personally gifted him with, comes out in death.
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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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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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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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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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The greatness of an artist or a writer does not depend on what he has in common with other artists and writers, but on what he has peculiar to himself.
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It is not of so much consequence what you say, as how you say it. Memorable sentences are memorable on account of some single irradiating word.
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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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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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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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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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