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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
Child
Mother
Night
Children
Pale
Leading
Evening

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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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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 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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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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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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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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It is a characteristic of pleasure that we can never recognize it to be pleasure till after it is gone.
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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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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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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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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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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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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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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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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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