Quotes About Beauty

for I was in hopes to have had a bout with her before she had gone, she being very pretty. I had also a mind to my own wench, but I dare not for fear she should prove honest and refuse and then tell my wife.

What I write [. . .] doesn't seem to be . . . true. I mean I can model so little of what it's about. Life is a very terrible thing, mostly, with points of wonder and beauty. Most of what makes it terrible, though, is simply that there's so much of it, blaring in through the five senses. In my loft, alone, in the middle of the night, it comes blaring in. So I work at culling enough from it to construct moments of order.

It's only when all one knows of life is abstracted and used as an underlining statement of significant patterning that you have what is both beautiful and permanent.

Wind passed again; the iris shuddered about the diamond chip.

In the cups, one after another, glistening disks rose, black without translucence.

Small breasts rose beneath the laces of her vest, steady as breath.

There is no articulate resonance. The common problem, I suppose, is to have more to say than vocabulary and syntax can bear. That is why I am hunting in these desiccated streets. The smoke hides the sky's variety, stains consciousness, covers the holocaust with something safe and insubstantial. It protects from greater flame. It indicates fire, but obscures the source. This is not a useful city. Very little here approaches any eidolon of the beautiful.

Life is a very terrible thing, mostly, with points of wonder and beauty. Most of what makes it terrible, though, is simply that there's so much of it, blaring in through the five senses.

Be sure don't let people's telling you, you are pretty, puff you up; for you did not make yourself, and so can have no praise due to you for it. It is virtue and goodness only, that make the true beauty.

The thorn is one of the most cursed, and angry, and crabbed weeds that the earth yieldeth, and yet out of it springeth the rose, one of the sweetest-smelled flowers, and most delightful to the eye, that the earth hath. Your Lord shall make joy and gladness out of your afflictions; for all His roses have a fragrant smell. Wait for the time when His own holy hand shall hold them to your nose...

I am in as sweet communion with Christ as a poor sinner can be; and am only pained that He hath much beauty and fairness, and I little love; He great power and mercy, and I little faith; He much light, and I bleared eyes.

O! for the long day, and the high sun, and the fair garden, and the King's great city up above these visible heavens!

The thorn is one of the most cursed and angry and crabbed weeds that the earth yields, and yet out of it springs the rose, one of the sweetest smelled flowers, and most delightful to the eye.

If we opened our minds to enjoyment, we might find tranquil pleasures spread about us on every side. We might live with the angels that visit us on every sunbeam, and sit with the fairies who wait on every flower.

That gracious thing, made up of tears and light. ††

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,Like April hoarfrost spread;But where the ship's huge shadow lay,The charmed water burnt alwayA still and awful red.

The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out:At one stride comes the dark;With far-heard whisper o'er the seaOff shot the specter bark.

O happy living things! no tongueTheir beauty might declare:A spring of love gushed from my heart,And I blessed them unaware.

Her gentle limbs did she undress,And lay down in her loveliness.

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

Her lips were red, her looks were free,Her locks were yellow as gold:Her skin was white as leprosy,The nightmare Life-in-Death was she,Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can.

Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree.

The hornèd Moon, with one bright starWithin the nether tip.