Quotes About Beauty

I love autumn in New York City: The yellows, the browns, and the rust -- and that's just the drinking water.... Here in New York City, the leaves turn -- and run.

It is said that springs of sweet, fresh water pool up amid the saltiness of the oceans, that the fairest Alpine flowers bloom in the wildest and most rugged mountain passes, and that the most magnificent psalms arose from the most profound agonies of the soul.

They tell me I must bruise The rose's leaf, Ere I can keep and use Its fragrance brief. They tell me I must break The skylark's heart, Ere her cage song will make The silence start. They tell me love must bleed, And friendship weep, Ere in my deepest need I touch that deep. Must it be always so With precious things? Must they be bruised and go With beaten wings? Ah, yes! by crushing days, By caging nights, by scar Of thorn and stony ways, These blessings are!

The colored sunsets and starry heavens, the beautiful mountains and the shining seas, the fragrant woods and painted flowers, are not half so beautiful as a soul that is serving Jesus out of love, in the wear and tear of common, unpoetic life. FABER

Women are beautiful when they're young, and not after. Men can still preserve their sex appeal well into old age.... Some men can maintain, if they embrace it ... cragginess, weary masculinity. Women just get old and fat and wrinkly.

She was the most beautiful, terrible thing he'd ever seen, like an acetylene flame, an incandescent filament, a fallen star right in front of him.

Plover's words were like dried flowers, stiff and crumbling, crushed flat between pages, when we'd had the living, blooming blossoms all around

Quentin's scales, he couldn't help but notice in passing, were the shiny metallic blue of a bitchin' muscle car.

It was always buzzing and singing and glowing and sparking to no particular purpose. Magic was decidedly imperfect. But the really funny thing, she thought, was that if it were perfect, it wouldn't be so beautiful. On

Sometimes she looked so beautiful he couldn't believe she had anything to do with him. He could barely believe she existed at all. "But

I suppose," Quentin said slowly, "you're going to say that that is a being of sublime beauty and power, and he only looks like that because my fallen mortal eyes are incapable of perceiving his true magnificence." "No. We think that's actually pretty much it.

Scese, evitando di guardarla a lungo, come si fa col sole; ma vedeva lei, come si vede il sole, anche senza guardare.

Egli la guardava, come l'uomo guarda il fiore da lui strappato e appassito, in cui riconosce con difficoltà la bellezza per la quale l'ha strappato e rovinato.

She thought that most women make a great mistake in allowing dress to be the master instead of the servant of their good looks; many women were, she considered, entirely crushed and made insignificant by the beauty of their clothes.

We all love musical architecture there's no doubt about that.

If a work of art is placed before me, I believe I can enjoy it; but I do not overlook the fact, that Art is one thing, another thing Amusement; and that people do like amusements, and will run after it.

Those works alone can have enduring success which successfully appeal to what is permanent in human nature -- which, while suiting the taste of the day, contain truths and beauty deeper than the opinions and tastes of the day.

I do not think the forest would be so bright, nor the water so warm, nor love so sweet, if there were no danger in the lakes.

Bad art is never really enjoyed in the same sense in which good art is enjoyed. It is only "liked": it never startles, prostrates, and takes captive.

"If it had grown up," she said to herself, "it would have made a dreadfully ugly child; but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think."

Surely your gladness need not be the less for the thought that you will one day see a brighter dawn than this - when lovelier sights will meet your eyes than any waving trees or rippling waters - when angel-hands shall undraw your curtains, and sweeter tones than ever loving Mother breathed shall wake you to a new and glorious day - and when all the sadness, and the sin, that darkened life on this little earth, shall be forgotten like the dreams of a night that is past!

Gardening is a kind of disease. It infects you, you cannot escape it. When you go visiting, your eyes rove about the garden; you interrupt the serious cocktail drinking because of an irresistible impulse to get up and pull a weed.

A day spent without the sight or sound of beauty, the contemplation of mystery, or the search of truth or perfection is a poverty-stricken day; and a succession of such days is fatal to human life.

Birdsong itself may have awakened the latent musical gifts of man.