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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
Circles
Entire
Fine
Days
Meekness
Year
October
Years
Delightful
Autumn
Circle

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The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.
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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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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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If you do your fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage - in praise or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste.
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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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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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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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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 brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.
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I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.
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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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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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