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The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Wise
Shall
Secret
Keep
Taciturn
Secrets
Dead

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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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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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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 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 man does not plant a tree for himself he plants it for posterity.
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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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The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.
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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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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his asides.
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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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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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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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Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.
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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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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 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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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
Alexander Smith