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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Pale
Leading
Evening
Child
Mother
Night
Children

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In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place today, it is vain to seek it there tomorrow. You can not lay a trap for it.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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In my garden I spend my days, in my library I spend my nights. My interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am in the present with the book I am in the past.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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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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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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Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.
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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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We have two lives The soul of man is like the rolling world, One half in day, the other dipt in night The one has music and the flying cloud, The other, silence and the wakeful stars.
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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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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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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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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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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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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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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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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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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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