Quotes About Beauty

Man dies, his white bones are dumb without a word When the green pines feel the coming of spring. Looking back, I sigh; looking before, I sigh again. What is there to prize in the life's vaporous glory?

He is a fool who is not for love and beauty.

See the sun! God's crest upon His azure shield, the Heavens.

Of all the rivers in the land, Thee most I love, fair Trent, For in thy stream and by thy banks My happiest hours I've spent. 'Twas there, hard by, I first drew breath, There hope to end my days; And everywhere I'll tell till death My native river's praise.

So sunset hath the richest sky, So saints look happiest as they die.

Lips like rosebuds peeping out of snow.

See the gold sunshine patching, And streaming and streaking across The gray-green oaks; and catching, By its soft brown beard, the moss.

Then she laughed out loud and hugged him tight with both arms. She smelled like pine trees and lichens and hot sand. How odd, thought Roger, that after all, this is what it took - not a flock of scarlet ibises or golden-crowned kinglets, but just the names of chicken, hovering in the air like the sulpher butterflies at the dump.

The yoke of beauty is easy to bear Since I need not lay it down.

Poetry is a controlled refinement of sobbing.

Why are things beautiful? I don't know. That's a good question. Isn't it pleasing when you ask a question of a person, a teacher, or a speaker, and he or she says, That's a good question? Don't you feel good when that happens?

First comes the sweat. Then comes the beauty if you're very lucky and have said your prayers.

The ballet is a purely female thing; it is a woman, a garden of beautiful flowers, and man is the gardener.

Outward beauty is a true sign of inner goodness. This loveliness, indeed, is impressed upon the body in varying degrees as a token by which the soul can be recognized for what it is, just as with trees the beauty of the blossom testifies to the goodness of the fruit.

Then the soul, freed from vice, purged by studies of true philosophy, versed in spiritual life, and practised in matters of the intellect, devoted to the contemplation of her own substance, as if awakened from deepest sleep, opens those eyes which all possess but few use, and sees in herself a ray of that light which is the true image of the angelic beauty communicated to her, and of which she then communicates a faint shadow to the body.

It will not, I suppose, be denied that the beauties of nature are at least as well qualified to minister to our higher needs as are the beauties of literature.

Beauty is an ill-defined attribute of certain members of an ill-defined class; and for the class itself there is no very convenient name. We might describe its members as "objects of aesthetic interest" always bearing in mind that this description (as I use it) applies to objects of the most varying degrees of excellence—to the small as well as the great, the trifling as well as the sublime: to conjuring and dancing; to literature, art, and natural beauty.

In the first place, history is not concerned to express beauty. I do not deny that a great historian, in narrating some heroic incident, may rival the epic and the saga. He may tell a tale which would be fascinating even if it were false. But such cases are exceptional, and ought to be exceptional. Directly it appears that the governing preoccupation of an historian is to be picturesque, his narrative becomes intolerable.

There is, even from my point of view, a great difference between beauty in art and beauty in nature. For, in the case of nature, there is no artist; while, as I observed just now, "a work of art requires an artist, not merely in the order of natural causation, but in the order of aesthetic necessity. It conveys a message which is valueless to the recipient unless it be understood by the sender.

The white façades of the villas and apartment houses were like blocks of time that had crystallized beside the road.

A beautiful woman should break her mirror early.

Beauty and folly are generally companions.

A bad manner spoils everything, even reason and justice a good one supplies everything, gilds a No, sweetens a truth, and adds a touch of beauty to old age itself.

Happiness is a soap bubble that changes color as the iris and that breaks when touched.