Alexander Smith

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

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

Sweet April's tears,
Dead on the hem of May.

Sweet April's tears,
Dead on the hem of May.

We bury love,
Forgetfulness grows over it like grass;
That is a thing to weep for, not read more

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

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

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

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.

Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.