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Yet through all, we know this tangled skein is in the hands of One, Who sees the end from the beginning: He shall unravel all.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Unravel
Tangled
Karma
Sees
Beginning
Shall
Hands
Ends
Skein

More quotes by Alexander Smith

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A thought may be very commendable as a thought, but I value it chiefly as a window through which I can obtain insight on the thinker.
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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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To bring the best human qualities to anything like perfection, to fill them with the sweet juices of courtesy and charity, prosperity, or, at all events, a moderate amount of it, is required,--just as sunshine is needed for the ripening of peaches and apricots.
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To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.
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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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Every day travels toward death the last only arrives at it.
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Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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Most brilliant star upon the crest of Time Is England. England!
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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
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Nature never quite goes along with us. She is somber at weddings, sunny at funerals, and she frowns on ninety-nine out of a hundred picnics.
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The world is not so much in need of new thoughts as that when thought grows old and worn with usage it should, like current coin, be called in, and, from the mint of genius, reissued fresh and new.
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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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God has thickly strewn infinity with grandeur.
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If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death.
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We bury love Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
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How deeply seated in the human heart is the liking for gardens and gardening.
Alexander Smith
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I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.
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I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.
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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.
Alexander Smith