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I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Fame
Quiet
Applauding
Learned
Deed
Call
Thunder
Men
Lightning
Heels
Prize
Deeds

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My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.
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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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We are never happy we can only remember that we were so once.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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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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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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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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Fine phrases I value more than bank-notes. I have ear for no other harmony than the harmony of words. To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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It is not of so much consequence what you say, as how you say it. Memorable sentences are memorable on account of some single irradiating word.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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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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A brave soul is a thing which all things serve.
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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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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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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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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 great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
Alexander Smith