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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Twilight
Soft
Sadness
Upon
Soul
Like
Drops
World
Dropping
Tender

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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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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 saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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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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Eternity doth wear upon her face the veil of time. They only see the veil, and thus they know not what they stand so near!
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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.
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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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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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Trees are your best antiques
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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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Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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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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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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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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An old novel has a history of its own.
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