Quotes About Beauty

THE LILY The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble sheep a threat'ning horn: While the Lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright. THE GARDEN OF LOVE I laid me down upon a bank, Where Love lay sleeping; I heard among the rushes dank Weeping, weeping.

S? vezi o Lume într-un gr?unte de nisip, Åži un Paradis într-o floare de câmp, S? Å£ii Infinitul în palm?, Åži Eternitatea într-o or?.

His pains he soon forgot: Lured by her beauty outside of himself in shadowy grief. Two Wills they had; Two Intellects: & not as in times of old. Silent they wanderd hand in hand like two Infants wandring From Enion in the desarts, terrified at each others beauty Envying each other yet desiring, in all devouring Love

art can never exist without naked beauty displayed

Roses are planted where thorns grow, and on the barren heath sing the honey bees.

There was something facile and shallow about male beauty, she thought.

In my mind Greece is reduced to one vast pile of shattered marble, shimmering in a heat aze.

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

Rot dead marigolds- an acre at a time! Gold are you?

Your thighs are apple trees. Your knees are the southern breeze.

Beautiful thing, my dove, unable and all who are windblown, touched by the fire and unable, a roar that (soundless) drowns the sense with its reiteration unwilling to lie in its bed and sleep and sleep, sleep in its dark bed. Summer! it is summer .—and still the roar in his mind is unabated

Observe the jasmine lightness of the moon.

Ah, Madam, what good are your thoughts romantic but true beside this gaiety of the sun and that huge appetite? Look! from a glass pitcher she serves clear water to the white chickens. What are your memories beside that purity?

all to no end save beauty the eternal –

and that beauty is related not to loveliness but to a state in which reality plays a part

One no more owes one's beauty to a lover than one's wit to an echo

She was herself in that moment of life when, to the middle-aged observer, at least, a woman's looks have a charm which is wanting to her earlier bloom. By that time her character has wrought itself more clearly out in her face, and her heart and mind confront you more directly there. It is the youth of her spirit which has come to the surface. I

Caddy got the box and set it on the floor and opened it. It was full of stars. When I was still, they were still. When I moved, they glinted and sparkled. I hushed.

The scattered tea goes with the leaves and every day a sunset dies.

Who gathers the withered rose?

Before us the thick dark current runs. It talks up to us in a murmur become ceaseless and myriad, the yellow surface dimpled monstrously into fading swirls travelling along the surface for an instant, silent, impermanent and profoundly significant, as though just beneath the surface something huge and alive waked for a moment of lazy alertness out of and into light slumber again.

Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.