Quotes About Beauty

She had set her hand on Leopardo's bowed head and allowed herself a moment with the mass of apricot hair that felt like crisp wild grass to her.

He, with his hair like the earliest sunrise, his fair complexion, his eyes gilded by lashes longer than their own, was like a being from another world.

Oh beautiful flower," she mocked him, "to see you grow and burst your bonds.

It was, for sure, the fault of those two gallants who had come up onto the balcony. One was an absolute Satan in his mask (though a fine figure on him), the other, unmasked and marvelous as a young knight in a stained glass window, stone-white and apparently dead, yet fit for an empress to lay hands on. Moved herself, Cornelia could see the effect this spectacle would have on the impressionable and sheltered virgin. Beg to Jesus to put such stirrings out of little Iuletta's breast.

The wealth of sorcerous knowledge I can import to the world, compared to your own transient beauty and skill, should recompense.

When Electra stood before her, their likeness and their unlikeness, both, were disconcerting. The black hair, the slender shapely form. Yet hyacinth hair in one, dragon's blood in the other, and the one figure like a flower stem and the other figure like a bone. Their faces were unmatched. The younger, peerlessly beautiful, lowered, unreadable. The older face like a carving, with a snake behind it.

I never saw a girl so beautiful." "Nor I. And for looks could be your sister. Much on that.

His voice was as beautiful as the rest of him, and the scout listened with offended amazement.

Physical glamour she admired, and an open purse likewise.

Young, handsome, blond as ice, and dressed as splendidly as King Malban himself, if with better taste.

Beautiful as the angels you may be, my soul, but transparent, to a cunning lady of the night. Leave it alone, beloved.

The noon sun, raying through the orange trees, fired his elegant silk clothes, and revealed his hair as pure light. It was a fitting halo for the marvellous face Mareme had compared to an angel's-though whether of the heavenly variety or one of the descended sort, it was somehow hard to be sure.

Cyrion is capable of sentiment over small children. And can remain unblinded by the prettiest woman.

As ever, the quite ludicrous beauty perturbed him. Romulan, undeniably masculine, was yet somehow his mother, faithfully reproduced. And there he stood, white as death, glaring, incalculable. Love, which was to Valentius no longer expressible, choked him.

The features of the face suggested strangeness, in a manner that owed nothing to their composition, which was quite ordinary. It was a clever face, and strong, but its cleverness and strength had nothing to do with the world. This man might walk through beauty or filth, through fire or flood or anguish, and not notice it, or at least not suffer it, for his brain was in constant flight, negotiating some other plain beyond all physical things.

When the night burned its cloak in the sunrise...

One would love nonetheless to know how to be a man, how to be a woman before God, in the mirror of one's own conscience, in the looks of those who surround us. One would wish to find the strength to beautify one's thoughts and to purify one's heart. It is everyone's hope and expectation to live in serenity and to plod along in transparency: the palms of the hands patiently directed towards heaven, at the heart of all this modernity.

Draum om nedsnødde bruer Med vi står fell snøen tettare. Kåpearmen din blir kvit. Kåpearmen min blir kvit. Dei går mellom oss som nedsnødde bruer. Men nedsnødde bruer er frosne. Inni her er det levande varmt. Varm under snøen er armen din ei sæl vekt på min. Det snør og snør på stille bruer. Bruer ingen veit om.

Golbuchiks? Golbuchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they'll all return to clay. They're full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust. You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call— O tender specter, happy chance, Again I heed the ancient lore, Again with beauty rare in stance, You beckon from the distant shore!

Heavenly streams poured down, piercing the snow. It looked like someone had punctured it and blackened it with stone nails. The earth showed through in some places. Last year's rubbish surfaced on all the streets, in all the yards.

The point is, we were created to love beauty. We love beauty because Elyon loves beauty. We love song because Elyon loves song. We love love because Elyon loves love. And we love to be loved because Elyon loves to be loved. In all these ways we are like Elyon. In one way or another, everything we do is tied to this unfolding story of love between us and Elyon.

This world we now live in may indeed be a beautiful gift from God, but do not forget that it's our union with him beyond this life for which we wait with breathless anticipation.

beauty was found beyond the surface. It was there, beyond the skin of this world, that a cure of ugliness could be could .

Even the bins looked beautiful to her. They simply were what they were and were doing a splendid job being just that.