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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.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Human
Kingdoms
Surveys
Humans
Notes
Reliable
Men
Result
Poorest
World
Personality
Globe
Produce
Globes
Results
Maps
May
Note
Savants
Ever
Kingdom
Survey

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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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Christmas is the day that holds all time together.
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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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Trees are your best antiques
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The saddest thing that befalls a soul is when it loses faith in god and woman.
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If the egotist is weak, his egotism is worthless. If the egotist is strong, acute, full of distinctive character, his egotism is precious, and remains a possession of the race.
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There is nothing good in this world which time does not improve.
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Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.
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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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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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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.
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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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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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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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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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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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Style, after all, rather than thought, is the immortal thing in literature.
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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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The great man is the man who does a thing for the first time.
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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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