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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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Lose
Loses
Keep
Soul
Men
World
Whiteness
Likely

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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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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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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
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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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A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.
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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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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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I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.
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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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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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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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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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An old novel has a history of its own.
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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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My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.
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