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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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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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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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The discovery of a grey hair when you are brushing out your whiskers of a morning - first fallen flake of the coming snows of age - is a disagreeable thing.
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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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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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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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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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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There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
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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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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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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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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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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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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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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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