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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
Greatness
Seek
Truly
Rest
Knowledge
Great
World
Deserts
Desert

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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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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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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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To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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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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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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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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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.
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The sea complains upon a thousand shores.
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In my garden I spend my days in my library I spend my nights.
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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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A tender sadness drops upon my soul, like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
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There is a certain even-handed justice in Time and for what he takes away he gives us something in return. He robs us of elasticity of limb and spirit, and in its place he brings tranquility and repose—the mild autumnal weather of the soul.
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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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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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The only thing a man knows is himself.
Alexander Smith