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

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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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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.
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In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.
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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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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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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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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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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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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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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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It is the sternest philosophy, but on the whole the truest, that, in the wide arena of the world, failure and success are not accidents, as we so frequently suppose, but the strictest justice.
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Trees are your best antiques
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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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In my garden I spend my days, in my library I spend my nights. My interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am in the present with the book I am in the past.
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