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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Nature
Wells
Well
Hides
Hide
Ugly
Fact
Death
Facts

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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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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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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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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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In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place today, it is vain to seek it there tomorrow. You can not lay a trap for it.
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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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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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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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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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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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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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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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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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
Alexander Smith