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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
Treads
Footsteps
Logic
Pleasure
Never

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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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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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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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A man does not plant a tree for himself he plants it for posterity.
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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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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Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his asides.
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Trees are your best antiques
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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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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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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My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.
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Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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To bring the best human qualities to anything like perfection, to fill them with the sweet juices of courtesy and charity, prosperity, or, at all events, a moderate amount of it, is required,--just as sunshine is needed for the ripening of peaches and apricots.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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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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The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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