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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Richer
Worlds
Single
Soul
World

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My friend is not perfect-no more than I am-and so we suit each other admirable.
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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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Trifles make up the happiness or the misery of mortal life.
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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.
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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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Pleasure has no logic it never treads in its own footsteps.
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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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Everything is sweetened by risk.
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The greatness of an artist or a writer does not depend on what he has in common with other artists and writers, but on what he has peculiar to himself.
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Vanity in its idler moments is benevolent, is as willing to give pleasure as to take it, and accepts as sufficient reward for its services a kind word or an approving smile.
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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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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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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 man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.
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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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A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
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We are never happy we can only remember that we were so once.
Alexander Smith
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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
Alexander Smith