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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Like
Lowlands
Brooches
Clasps
Highlands
Scottish
Huge
Together

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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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There is a certain even-handed justice in Time and for what he takes away he gives us something in return. He robs us of elasticity of limb and spirit, and in its place he brings tranquility and repose—the mild autumnal weather of the soul.
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In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.
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A man can bear a world's contempt when he has that within which says he's worthy. When he contemns himself, there burns the hell.
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The only thing a man knows is himself.
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A thought may be very commendable as a thought, but I value it chiefly as a window through which I can obtain insight on the thinker.
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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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Trees are your best antiques
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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We are never happy we can only remember that we were so once.
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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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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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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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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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