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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
Fingers
Glimpse
Happiness
Finger
Steal
Never
Features
Stealing
Attempt
Lays
Disappears
Disappear
Pulse

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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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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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Pride's chickens have bonny feathers, but they are an expensive brood to rear. They eat up everything, and are always lean when brought to market.
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Looking forward into an empty year strikes one with a certain awe, because one finds therein no recognition. The years behind have a friendly aspect, and they are warmed by the fires we have kindled, and all their echoes are the echoes of our own voices.
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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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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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Eternity doth wear upon her face the veil of time. They only see the veil, and thus they know not what they stand so near!
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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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Trees are your best antiques
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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I go into my library, and all history unrolls before me. I breathe the morning air of the world while the scent of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, while it vibrated only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and to the laugh of Eve. I see the pyramids building I hear the shoutings of the armies of Alexander.
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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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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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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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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Each time we love,We turn a nearer and a broader markTo that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes.
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In life there is nothing more unexpected and surprising than the arrivals and departures of pleasure. If we find it in one place today, it is vain to seek it there tomorrow. You can not lay a trap for it.
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