Quotes About Beauty

Night in the desert. Nowhere else in all the world Night comes like this... My eyes, my human eyes, can see no end... The hard bright moon seems far, so far away— —The million, million stars that jeer at me— Great God, how big it is—and I But one more grain of sand beneath the immeasurable sky— Night in the desert...

Emily Dickinson is a good example of the visionary who sets down her little glimpses of truth or beauty in the condensed forms in which they flashed into her mind, without effort to expand and interpret, probably without the ability to do so. Her poems will never be enjoyed by a multitude of readers because she never sought to reach the many. The few who enjoy will do so by reason of the fact that they are themselves supplying all of the expansion and interpretation.

There is no one who does not exaggerate. In conversation, men are encumbered with personality, and talk too much. In modern sculpture, picture, and poetry, the beauty is miscellaneous; the artist works here and there, and at all points, adding and adding, instead of unfolding the unit of his thought.

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn...

A lady, with whom I was riding in the forest, said to me, that the woods always seemed to her to wait, as if the genii who inhabit them suspended their deeds until the wayfarer has passed onward: a thought which poetry has celebrated in the dance of the fairies, which breaks off on the approach of human feet.

Spring blossoms are fairy tales, autumn leaves are tragic dramas.

Flowers and fruits are always fit presents; flowers because they are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.... these delicate flowers look like the frolic and interference of love and beauty.

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk undisturbed...

The lovely flowers embarrass me, They make me regret I am not a bee –

But I insist that hollyhocks were brought to New England for the same reason they were taken to Old England, for the sake of beauty, for the satisfaction of seeing those crinkled silken petals spread their color in midsummer.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance...

That a pansy is transitive, is its only pang.

The stem of a departed flower Has still a silent rank, The bearer from an emerald court Of a despatch of pink.

You can see the goldenrod, that most tenacious and pernicious and beauteous of all New England flora, bowing away from the wind like a great and silent congregation.

You smell the lilac and there comes flooding back the memories of the days when you first knew lilacs and carried them about as if they were the queen-flower of the world.

Flowers rewrite soil, water, and sunshine into petal'd poetry.

Watching the iris, The faint and fragile petals — How am I worthy?

I long for flowers that bend with the wind and rain...

To the Dandelion... My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee...

Beauty without virtue is a rose without fragrance.

The most beautiful roses grow on graves.

If the rose comes, we eat and drink near it; if it departs, we do not regret it.

plum blossoms in the moonlit glow of a late February calm cool night — magical soul-stirring springtime sight

I am glad it is your birthday. It is this little bouquet's birthday too. Its Father is a very old man by the name of Nature...