Quotes About Beauty

A Wood in Sound The pine tree sways in the smoke, Which streams up and up. There's a wood in sound. My legs lose themselves Where the river mirrors daffodils Like faces in a dream. A cold wind and the white memory Of a sasanqua. Warm rain comes and goes. I'll wait calmly on the bank Till the water clears And willows start to bud. Time is singed on the debris Of air raids. Somehow, here and now, I am another.

Trees everywhere, and buds About to burst in sunlight, Which makes a river of the snow.

We can behold them. The sparrow stirs, The universe moves slightly.

Cloud I'm cheerful, whatever happens, a puff in sky -- what splendor exists, I'm there.

He said, If you knew your beauty. Even the cat listened. Margaret said, If I did, what then? You'd set the world singing. They knew he meant, You would find a man who truly loved you.

Miss Fielding had no fears of ultimate survival, even in beauty. When she passed on, she would draw after her every trailing mist of herself, effacing herself so completely that even after her death, even after her bones, which she could not help, were gone, she would be a bother to no one, would intrude on no mind.

Some rose petals are poisonous.

I could help her in her shop, Eleanor thought; she loves beautiful things and I would go with her to find them. We could go anywhere we pleased, to the edge of the world if we liked, and come back when we wanted to.

Good morning, Jonas. You are a furred leaf, I think.

You're lucky you won't ever be pretty. Harriet knew already that this would keep her heartsick for months, perhaps the rest of her life, and she said thickly, I'm losing weight right now. It isn't that you're so fat, Miss Tyler said critically. You just don't have the air of a pretty woman. All your life, for instance, you'll walk like you're fat, whether you are or not.

Outside were the eucalyptus trees, like lace against the sky. If it were only possible to lie against them, light and bodiless, sink into their softness, deeper and deeper, lost in them, buried, never come back again....

Around her the trees and wild flowers, with that oddly courteous air of natural things suddenly interrupted in their pressing occupations of growing and dying, turned toward her with attention, as though, dull and imperceptive as she was, it was still necessary for them to be gentle to a creation so unfortunate as not to be rooted in the ground, forced to go from one place to another, heart-breakingly mobile. Idly

They made houses so oddly back when Hill House was built, she thought; they put towers and turrets and buttresses and wooden lace on them, even sometimes Gothic spires and gargoyles; nothing was ever left undecorated.

Flowers under glass," Luke said. "Tassels. I am beginning to fancy this house.

Looking up as she did immediately, she saw immeasurable space, traveling past the locked hands of the trees, past the large nodding implacable heads, up and into the silence of the sky, where the stars remained, indifferent.

It's spring, you're young, you're lovely, you have a right to be happy. Come back into the world.

And there were birds singing, and--oh, I wish I could remember, and make you all see how lovely it was!--and flowers, and everything was so gentle and warm and light; it is going to be so beautiful

Some lives, ending as Miss Fielding's would, leave a grain of memory, like a grain of sand, in the depths of another mind, a grain of sand which is like the constant irritation under an oyster's shell, eventually to grow with coating after coating of disguising beauty into a pearl. Sometime this memory would be pried loose, in its rounded beauty, to stand by itself as an object of delight.

They're a lovely couple—she doesn't mind his not being too bright and he doesn't mind her not looking so good. But beauty makes nothing good, my mother says. It's goodness that makes everything beautiful.

The demands of Sex Privatization contradict the demands of the Beauty Ideal, causing the severe feminine neurosis about personal appearance.

The world is its own magic.

Dead my old fine hopes And dry my dreaming but still... Iris, blue each spring

On the East Coast, sunrise will steal the breath right out of your body.

She wore amethyst-purple woolen slacks paired with a bright yellow leather jacket, like a human being hoping to become an iris.