Quotes About Beauty

I catch a flash of red-gold beneath the surface of the water, and realize that there are koi in the pond, massive, serene, and I wonder: are they dreams of fish, or fish who dream?

Beyond the window, snow fell like frozen drops of poison.

I suppose she was pretty-at least everyone seemed to think so-but her mouth was small and ungenerous, and her eyes was hard. Her voice was high-pitched and always rather breathless, and she lisped slightly. The quality of her voice was childlike, innocent, and that was a deception worthy of the Serpent in Eden.

I can hear broken edges, failures, a great emptiness where there should be beauty. I can hear a faint, sobbing thread of song, running through the desolution like a tickle of tainted water through a battlefield strewn with corpses. It is all my fault. I cannot remember how or why, but I can feel my guilt in everything I touch.

Victoria wasn't beautiful, but a stern regularity of feature made her uncompromisingly handsome.

It is a rose, planted in your hear, and as its thorns tear you so does it thrive and flower.

My roses still bloom, for I will not let them fade, but the weeping willows have choked out the cherry trees, and all the chrysanthemums and snapdragons have become love-lies-bleeding and anemones and hydrangeas of the deepest indigo blue. You are missed, my only violet.

She hadn't been a beautiful woman when she was alive; her jaw was too heavy, eyes too small. But she'd clearly been a woman with appaling force of character; the heavy jaw was almost balanced by the uncompromising line of her mouth, and those small, flat, gray eyes reminded me of the one time I had come face to face with a rattlesnake somewhere out in the Grasslands to the west of the Bastion.

It had been foolish of Dothaw to underestimate Vyell's intiative, but many men looked at his size and the beauty of his face and assumed that there could be nothing but witless amiability behind such a facade, an assumption which Vyell was not above fostering.

Isn't it what you want, to have every man who sees you desire you?

I watched him, trying to decide if he was lying about how badly he was hurt, and suddenly like throwing open a pair of shutters, I saw the muscles of his back moving beneath his skin, the strength of his shoulders, the long-fingered grace of his hands. I had always known that Mildmay, despite being a good half foot shorter than I, was as muscular and agile as an acrobat, but now I saw that he was beautiful.

My nerves still raw from the confronation with Astyanax, I was burningly aware of Mildmay's beauty, his bones, his grace, the walls and shadows in his eyes. Burningly aware that he was my brother and, more than that, he did not want me.

I had hoped that I might replace the burning blackness in my mind with the simple, remote darkness of the night sky. Sometimes I could calm myself that way, but tonight the longer I stared at the sky, its untouchable beauty, the more I wanted to hurt someone.

With vitality, her face became beautiful, and her purring laugh was like a gift.

She was tall, slender, lithe. She wore her hair in smooth black curls around the perfect oval of her face, and her eyes were pale gray, the color of fog. She wore the clothes of a lady with neither apology not discomfort, dark purple poplin trimmed with black lace, high-necked and formfitting with a great swag of bustle behind. She saw us and made her way across the room without hesitation.

Tonight she understood what the song was trying to say, that the truth was still beautiful, even if it came out of something painful and ugly and heart-breaking.

perfect blue sky. Fresh snow dusted the trees and she felt the cold air freeze her cheeks. The first thing she noticed was how calm and peaceful it was.

She loved living here, in this land of mist and mountains, of lochs and legend.

We are always looking forward to the passing and ending of winter, but when summer is here it seems as if summer must always last. As I went across the fields that day, I found myself half lamenting that the world must fade again, even that the best of her budding and bloom was only a preparation for another spring-time, for an awakening beyond the coming winter's sleep.

The bright flower was like a face. Somehow, the beauty and life of it were surprising in the plain room, like a gay little child who might suddenly appear in a doorway.

Jewelry takes people's minds off your wrinkles

There's a word in Japanese for being sad in the springtime – a whole word for just being sad – about how pretty the flowers are and how soon they're going to die." — Sarah Ruhl

A girl, a woman who is two-thirds done, is nearer to God. A young woman on the verge of knowing herself is the most attractive thing on this earth to a man for this very reason.

It is in the early morning hour that the unseen is seen, and that the far-off beauty and glory, vanquishing all their vagueness, move down upon us till they stand clear as crystal close over against the soul.