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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Sweet
Dead
May
Hem
April
Tears

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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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The sun was down, And all the west was paved with sullen fire. I cried, Behold! the barren beach of hell At ebb of tide.
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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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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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The globe has been circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has you may survey a kingdom and note the result in maps, but all the savants in the world could not produce a reliable map of the poorest human personality.
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If the egotist is weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a possession of the race.
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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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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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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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Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.
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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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The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
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