Quotes About Beauty

the dewy night unrolls a heaven thickly jewelled with sparkling stars

and why the winter suns so rush to bathe themselves in the sea and what slows down the nights to a long lingering crawl...

Collige Virgo Rosas

Latet arbore opaca aureus et foliis et lento vimine ramus

Paeoniis revocatum herbis et amore Dianae.

Are we not acceptable, moon? Are we not lovely sitting together here, I in my satin; he in black and white?

Yes. When I want to fill my heart with His love, I open my eyes to the creations of His hand, especially the ones that seem outrageously and uselessly beautiful--sunsets, sunrises, ice crystals, patterns in drying mud, golden cottonwood leaves against red rock cliffs, the melancholy sound of the first cricket in August, moss-covered rocks in a mountain stream, the way a baby laughs before she can do useful things such as talking or walking.

Design is not style. It's not about giving shape to the shell and not giving a damn about the guts. Good design is a renaissance attitude that combines technology, cognitive science, human need, and beauty to produce something that the world didn't know it was missing.

I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything.

I don't believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one's aspect to the sun.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one's own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.

Beauty was not everything. Beauty had this penalty — it came too readily, came too completely. It stilled life — froze it.

So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paper-knife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit silent.

The waves broke and spread their waters swiftly over the shore. One after another they massed themselves and fell; the spray tossed itself back with the energy of their fall. The waves were steeped deep-blue save for a pattern of diamond-pointed light on their backs which rippled as the backs of great horses ripple with muscles as they move. The waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.

It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.

Her heart was made of liquid sunsets.

Her eyes are pure stars, and her fingers, if they touch you, freeze you to the bone.

But beauty must be broken daily to remain beautiful...

Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.

I went from one to the other holding my sorrow - no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life - for their inspection. Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken - I to whom there is no beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely.