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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
Cried
Beach
Paved
West
Sullen
Sun
Barren
Hell
Tide
Fire
Behold
Tides
Sunset

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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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It is not of so much consequence what you say, as how you say it. Memorable sentences are memorable on account of some single irradiating word.
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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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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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If a man is worth knowing at all, he is worth knowing well.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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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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A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
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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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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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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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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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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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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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We are never happy we can only remember that we were so once.
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Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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