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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
Time
Archer
Love
Broader
Keen
Nearer
Strikes
Sorrow
Turn
Turns

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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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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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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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Pride's chickens have bonny feathers, but they are an expensive brood to rear. They eat up everything, and are always lean when brought to market.
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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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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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A man does not plant a tree for himself he plants it for posterity.
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The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.
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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.
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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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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 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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An old novel has a history of its own.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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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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