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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Nights
Library
Lovers
Garden
Spend
Days
Night
Book

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Trees are your best antiques
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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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One never hugs one's good luck so affectionately as when listening to the relation of some horrible misfortunes which has overtaken others.
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A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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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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A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
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The pleased sea on a white-breasted shore-- A shore that wears on her alluring brows Rare shells, far brought, the love-gifts of the sea, That blushed a tell-tale.
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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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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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A man can bear a world's contempt when he has that within which says he's worthy. When he contemns himself, there burns the hell.
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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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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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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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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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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
Alexander Smith