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Each time we love,We turn a nearer and a broader markTo that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Strikes
Sorrow
Turn
Turns
Time
Archer
Love
Broader
Keen
Nearer

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Trees are your best antiques
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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 pleased sea on a white-breasted shore-- A shore that wears on her alluring brows Rare shells, far brought, the love-gifts of the sea, That blushed a tell-tale.
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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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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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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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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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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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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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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 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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Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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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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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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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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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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