Alexander Smith

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

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

We twain have met like the ships upon the sea,
Who behold an hour's converse, so short, so sweet:
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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.

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.

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

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

The sea complains upon a thousand shores.

The sea complains upon a thousand shores.