Quotes from Alexander Smith

Everything is sweetened by risk.

If you wish to preserve your secret, wrap it up in frankness.

A man gazing at the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles in the road.

Enamoured pigeons coo upon the roof...

Colder than lunar rainbows, changefuller Than sleeked purples on a pigeon's neck.

In every orchard Autumn stands, With apples in his golden hands.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

Every man's road in life is marked by the grave of his personal likings.

I have learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, not the applauding thunder at its heels that men call fame.

To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud.

Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.

He was one Who could not help it, for it was his nature To blossom into song, as 't is a tree's To leaf itself in April.

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.

Best I love September's yellow; Morns of dew-strung gossamer, Thoughtful days without a stir, Rooky clamours, brazen leaves, Stubbles dotted o'er with sheaves,— More than Spring's bright uncontrol Suit the Autumn of my soul.

A man gazing on the stars is proverbially at the mercy of the puddles in the road.

To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.

Best I love September's yellow...

If you do your fair day's work, you are certain to get your fair day's wage - in praise or pudding, whichever happens to suit your taste.

Winter does not work only on a broad scale; he is careful in trifles.

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.

I would rather be remembered by a song than by a victory.

Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead

Christmas is the day that holds all time together.