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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Strewn
Grandeur
Infinity
Infinite
Thickly

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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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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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Each time we love,We turn a nearer and a broader markTo that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.
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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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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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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 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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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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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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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.
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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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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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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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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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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.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
Alexander Smith