Quote

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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Age
Disagreeable
Firsts
Grey
First
Fallen
Thing
Snow
Flake
Discovery
Snows
Coming
Whiskers
Hair
Flakes
Morning
Brushing

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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 day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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I go into my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, while it vibrated only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and to the laugh of Eve. I see the pyramids building I hear the shoutings of the armies of Alexander.
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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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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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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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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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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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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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Trees are your best antiques
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If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death.
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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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An old novel has a history of its own.
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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 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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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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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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