Quote

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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Converses
Hours
Mets
Behold
Upon
Lonely
Mist
Away
Hour
Paths
Littles
Sea
Cloud
Little
Meet
Ships
Twain
Like
Short
Clouds
Converse
Sweet
Foam
Path
Speed

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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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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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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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A man gazing at the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles in the road.
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Yet through all, we know this tangled skein is in the hands of One, Who sees the end from the beginning: He shall unravel all.
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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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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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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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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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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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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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