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The greatness of an artist or a writer does not depend on what he has in common with other artists and writers, but on what he has peculiar to himself.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Doe
Depend
Greatness
Artists
Writers
Depends
Writer
Common
Peculiar
Artist
Individuality

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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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An old novel has a history of its own.
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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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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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A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
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Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.
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Trees are your best antiques
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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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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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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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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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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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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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It is a characteristic of pleasure that we can never recognize it to be pleasure till after it is gone.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
Alexander Smith