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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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Beach
Paved
West
Sullen
Sun
Barren
Hell
Tide
Fire
Behold
Tides
Sunset
Cried

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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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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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Fine phrases I value more than bank-notes. I have ear for no other harmony than the harmony of words. To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.
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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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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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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
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Eternity doth wear upon her face the veil of time. They only see the veil, and thus they know not what they stand so near!
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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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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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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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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.
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How beautiful the yesterday that stood Over me like a rainbow! I am alone, The past is past. I see the future stretch All dark and barren as a rainy sea.
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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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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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