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In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

Alexander Smith

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Alexander Smith
Age: 36 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 31
Died: 1867
Died: January 5
Poet
Cille Mheàrnaig
Gate
Stops
Gates
Bars
Garden
Care
Wistfully
Gazes

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Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.
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The spot of ground on which a man has stood is forever interesting to him.
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To sit for one's portrait is like being present at one's own creation.
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A man does not plant a tree for himself he plants it for posterity.
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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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Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
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Books are a finer world within the world. (1863)
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The only thing a man knows is himself.
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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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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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A single soul is richer than all the worlds.
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Fame is but an inscription on a grave, and glory the melancholy blazon on a coffin lid.
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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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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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Stirling, like a huge brooch, clasps Highlands and Lowlands together.
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In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.
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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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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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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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