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The truly great rest in the knowledge of their own deserts, nor seek the conformation of the world.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Desert
Greatness
Seek
Truly
Rest
Knowledge
Great
World
Deserts

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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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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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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.
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Good-humor and, generosity carry day with the popular heart all the world over.
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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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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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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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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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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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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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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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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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Seated in my library at night, and looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occasionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.
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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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