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Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Stealing
Attempt
Lays
Disappears
Disappear
Pulse
Fingers
Glimpse
Happiness
Finger
Never
Steal
Features

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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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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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There is no ghost so difficult to lay as the ghost of an injury.
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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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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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Trees are your best antiques
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To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
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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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If you do your fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage - in praise or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste.
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A poem round and perfect as a star.
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Some books are drenchèd sandsOn which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy.
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If you wish to make a man look noble, your best course is to kill him. What superiority he may have inherited from his race, what superiority nature may have personally gifted him with, comes out in death.
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How beautiful the yesterday that stood Over me like a rainbow! I am alone, The past is past. I see the future stretch All dark and barren as a rainy sea.
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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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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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We have two lives The soul of man is like the rolling world, One half in day, the other dipt in night The one has music and the flying cloud, The other, silence and the wakeful stars.
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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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Winter does not work only on a broad scale he is careful in trifles.
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Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.
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