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

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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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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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Thoughts must come naturally, like wild-flowers they cannot be forced in a hot-bed, even although aided by the leaf-mould of your past.
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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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Vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts as sufficient reward for its services a kind word or an approving smile.
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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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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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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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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We bury love Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
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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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Nature never quite goes along with us. She is somber at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.
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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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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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A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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