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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Entire
Fine
Days
Meekness
Year
October
Years
Delightful
Autumn
Circle
Circles

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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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Vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts as sufficient reward for its services a kind word or an approving smile.
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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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To bring the best human qualities to anything like perfection, to fill them with the sweet juices of courtesy and charity, prosperity, or, at all events, a moderate amount of it, is required,--just as sunshine is needed for the ripening of peaches and apricots.
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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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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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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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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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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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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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Each time we love,We turn a nearer and a broader markTo that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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We twain have met like the ships upon the sea, Who behold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet: One little hour! and then, away they speed On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam, To meet no more.
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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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Pride's chickens have bonny feathers, but they are an expensive brood to rear. They eat up everything, and are always lean when brought to market.
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