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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
Learned
Deed
Call
Thunder
Men
Lightning
Heels
Prize
Deeds
Fame
Quiet
Applauding

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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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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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The only thing a man knows is himself.
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To-day is always different from yesterday.
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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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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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In my garden I spend my days, in my library I spend my nights. My interests are divided between my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am in the present with the book I am in the past.
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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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If a man is worth knowing at all, he is worth knowing well.
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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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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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Sweet April's tears, Dead on the hem of May.
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A man can bear a world's contempt when he has that within which says he's worthy. When he contemns himself, there burns the hell.
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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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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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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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An old novel has a history of its own.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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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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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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