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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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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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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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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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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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The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.
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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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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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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
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The globe has been circumnavigated, but no man ever yet has you may survey a kingdom and note the result in maps, but all the savants in the world could not produce a reliable map of the poorest human personality.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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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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The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.
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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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.
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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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