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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Pleasure
Never
Treads
Footsteps
Logic

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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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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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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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Nature never quite goes along with us. She is somber at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics.
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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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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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Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
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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 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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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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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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Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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One never hugs one's good luck so affectionately as when listening to the relation of some horrible misfortunes which has overtaken others.
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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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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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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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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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