Quotes About Beauty

As I come through the garden, Suddenly all birds seem to cease their singing: The tight-curled buds like birds on the branches swinging Silently shrink and harden On the naked trees that were once green fountains springing. And you are not there, not there, not there, Your laughing face and your windblown hair Leave not even a ghost in the garden.

Go out into the sunlight and be happy with what you see.

He felt he would like one more look at the sea, which even now was licking at the rocks behind the house. He had no sentimental notions about the sea; he had no regard for its dangers or its beauties; to him it was a close acquaintance whose every virtue and failing, every smile and tantrum he had come to understand.

Ross took a deep breath of the air, which was heavy with the smell of sea. He fancied he could hear the waves breaking.

An hour before dawn they went down to the cove, following the bubble of the stream and the descending combe, with a glowworm here and there green-lit like a jewel in the dark.

I'm afraid they would droop. See, they're drooping already. Bluebells are like that.

through all the monotony and the splendor of life.

So he found that what he had half despised was not despicable, that what had been for him the satisfaction of an appetite, a pleasant but commonplace adventure in disappointment, owned wayward and elusive depths he had not known before, and carried the knowledge of beauty in its heart.

He tried to remember her as a thin little urchin trailing across the fields with Garrick behind her. But that was no use at all. The urchin was gone forever. It was not beauty she had grown overnight but the appeal of youth, which was beauty in its own right.

In alto nel cielo c'era uno sbuffo di nuvole rosa e zafferano.

Ross pensò: se solo potessimo fermare la vita per un po', la fermerei qui. Non al mio ritorno a casa, non al momento di lasciare Trenwith, ma qui, qui, mentre ci avviciniamo alla sommità della collina, oltre Sawle, il crepuscolo che accarezza i confini della terra e Demelza che cammina canticchiando al mio fianco.

L'autunno indugiava come invaghito della propria perfezione.

She was a dark young woman, a little above average in height, dressed in a close-fitting blue riding habit, a pale blue bodice, and a small tricorn hat. Connoisseurs would have disagreed as to whether she was beautiful, but few men would have passed her without a second glance.

Demelza con la sua femminilità appena sbocciata. Una ragazzina appassionata che si rotolava nella polvere con il suo brutto cane; una ragazza che conduceva dei buoi; una donna... il resto aveva davvero importanza?

Lei chinò il capo per ascoltarlo. Jim notò che in qualunque ombra sedessero, c'era sempre una luce che cercava la pelle pallida e liscia della fronte di lei, la curva delle sue guance. Luce, c'era sempre luce per i suoi occhi.

Aveva visto il gelo disegnare motivi simili a foglie sul vetro, gocce di pioggia scorrere come lacrime su vecchie guance, il primo sole di primavera splendere polveroso sul tappeto turco e sulle assi di quercia macchiate del pavimento.

le spalle simili al bianco cuore di un fiore. [...]

That reminds me of when you used to call and see us before Christmas, the year before last. Somehow–somehow life was all dark and secret and beautiful then.

Alla fine, sotto la sporcizia che le copriva il viso, comparve un vago rossore.

Art is to beauty what honour is to honesty, an unnatural allotropic form.

Because, wherever I have looked, I see that all things are perpetually referred to an eternal standard of fitness, and that right triumphs over wrong, truth over falsehood, beauty over ugliness. Fitness is the general expression! Judged by this standard art and honour have little value.

Môr o gân yw Cymru i gyd. [All Wales is a sea of song.]

He was a cut flower in a vase; fair to see, yet bound to die, and to die very soon if the water was not constantly renewed.

It meant that to create was a fundament, to appreciate, a supplement.