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It is a characteristic of pleasure that we can never recognize it to be pleasure till after it is gone.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Characteristics
Till
Recognize
Pleasure
Gone
Never
Characteristic

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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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If the egotist is weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a possession of the race.
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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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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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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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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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Yet through all, we know this tangled skein is in the hands of One, Who sees the end from the beginning: He shall unravel all.
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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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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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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.
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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
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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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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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Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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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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Trees are your best antiques
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We bury love Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
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