Quotes About Beauty

In Sleep we lie all naked and alone, in Sleep we are united at the heart of night and darkness, and we are strange and beautiful asleep; for we are dying the darkness and we know no death.

The hills climbed sunward to the sun. 

Her lack of magnificence in a magnificent world

The great shapes of the hills, embrowned and glowing with the molten hues of autumn, are all about him: the towering summits, wild and lonely, full of joy and strangeness and their haunting premonitions of oncoming winter soar above him, the gulches, gorges, gaps, and wild ravines, fall sheer and suddenly away with a dizzy terrifying steepness, and all the time the great train toils slowly down from the mountain summits with the sinuous turnings of an enormous snake.

The wine of the grape had never stained her mouth, but the wine of poetry was inextinguishable mixed with her blood, entombed in her flesh.

out of death, life, out of the coarse rank earth, a flower.

She went away in beauty's flower, Before her youth was spent; Ere life and love had lived their hour God called her, and she went. Yet whispers Faith upon the wind: No grief to her was given. She left your love and went to find A greater one in heaven.

It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look... To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.

what a rich book might be made about buds and, perhaps, sprouts!

Such is beauty ever. Neither here nor there, now nor then. Neither in Rome, nor in Athens. But, wherever there is a soul to admire. If I seek her elsewhere because I do not find her at home, my search will prove a fruitless one.

Schönheit liegt im Auge des Betrachters.

And could you not make a cameo of this and pin it onto your aesthetic hearts?

mayaroo's great

Unfortunately, the selection mechanism is often some combination of beauty and shock value, rather than pertinence and accuracy.

you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is not.

It can be argued, for instance, that war is grotesque. But in truth war is also beauty... Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference- a powerful, implacable beauty- and a true war story will tell the truth about this, though the truth is ugly

Her white skin and those dark brown eyes and the way she always smiled at the world - always, it seemed - as if her face had been designed that way. The smile never went away.

Red and green and silver flares, all colors, and the rain came down in Technicolor.

You hate it, yes, but your eyes do not. Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference—a powerful, implacable beauty—and a true war story will tell the truth about this, though the truth is ugly. To

Because it's all relative. You're pinned down in some filthy hellhole of a paddy, getting your ass delivered to kingdom come, but then for a few seconds everything goes quiet and you look up and see the sun and a few puffy white clouds, and the immense serenity flashes against your eyeballs—the whole world gets rearranged—and even though you're pinned down by a war you never felt more at peace.   What

Sun and waves and gentle winds, all love and lightness.

A handsome kid, really. Sharp gray eyes, lean and narrow-waisted, and when he died it was almost beautiful, the way the sunlight came around him and lifted him up and sucked him high into a tree full of moss and vines and white blossoms.

I remember holding you against the sink, with the sun soaking the window, the soft call of your hips, and the intricate flickers of thought chiming your eyes. Your mouth, like a Saturday.

There was dew on the flaccid wires of the fences and magpies were strung along them like beads.