Quotes About Beauty

Ironic, Betty Lou said at last. The cereus insists on sunlight---that's why it must be at the end of the yard. And yet it saves its flowers for the moon. The sun never sees what it fathers. It takes from the day, I said, gives to the night.

So, I said, when does the enchantment start? We were sitting side by side, facing the mountains. It started when the earth was born. Her eyes were closed. Her face was golden in the setting sun. It never stops. It is, always. It's just here.

She was gone. She was serenity. Her lips faintly smiling. Her golden skin. The glowing thread-ends of her hair. She seemed to have been dipped iin sunlight and set here to dry. I felt a pang of jealousy, that she could be sitting next to me and not know it. That she could be somewhere most wonderful and I could not be there, too.

The pure whiteness, dazzling in the sun, was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Who was I to spoil it? Snow falls. Earth says: Here's a gift for you. And what do we do? We shovel it. Blow it. Scrape it. Plow it. Get it out of our way. We push it to our fringes. Is there anything uglier or sadder than a ten-day-old snow dump? It's not even snow anymore. It's slush.

And each night in bed I thought of her as the moon came through my window. I could have lowered my shade to make it darker and easier to sleep, but I never did. In that moonlit hour, I acquired a sense of the otherness of things. I liked the feeling the moonlight gave me, as if it wasn't the opposite of day, but its underside, its private side...

I saw a little girl in a wooden wagon, her dress spilling colors over its sides, staring at the rising sun as if it were the very dawn of creation.

She wasn't gorgeous, wasn't ugly. A sprinkle of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose. Mostly, she looked like a hundred other girls in school, except for two things, She wore no makeup, and her eyes were the biggest I had ever seen, like deer's eyes caught in headlights.

I took one step onto the field and stopped. What was I doing? The pure whiteness, dazzling in the sun, was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Who was I to spoil it? Snow falls. Earth says: Here—a gift for you. And what do we do? We shovel it. Blow it. Scrape it. Plow it. Get it out of our way. We push it to our fringes. Is there anything uglier or sadder than a ten-day-old snow dump? It's not even snow anymore. It's slush.

A full moon falling on the snow lit up the world - who needed electricity?

The setting sun seemed to have ladled its syrupy light over the crusted snow, so that ordinary house parts and backyards in this fading moment seemed a spectacular raspberry dessert.

Clearly, she had erased herself. She was gone. She was serenity. Her lips faintly smiling. Her golden skin. The glowing thread ends of her hair. She seemed to have been dipped in sunlight and set here to dry.

if you love your garden, you don't mind working in it, and waiting. Then in the proper season you will surely see it flourish.

May God keep the beautiful women safe from people with wild imagination.

And yet, with all its life, even at the peak of its bloom, the garden was its own graveyard. Under every tree and bush lay rotten trunks and disintegrated and decomposing roots. It was hard to know which was more important: the garden's surface or the graveyard from which it grew and into which it was constantly lapsing. For

Mom had gotten herself so gorgeous she nearly broke the mirror

world tasting like hope and blue sky. Turn it up! Your hips can't help but wiggle. Man, it feels like that song was written for you, like you're gorgeous and loved and the entire planet is in order.

the moon's incurious eye.

According to my dad, there were three perfect smells in this world: Fresh-cut grass. A campfire at the edge of a redwood forest. The jubilance of rich black dirt after a thunderstorm.

I have two options in this world. I can allow what is happening around me to control me, to break me, to destroy me and make me a twisted, angry shell of a person, as it has done to so many others. Or I can rise above it. There is ugliness around me, but there is beauty, too. I will find whatever I seek.

She was asleep, that blond hair swirled like butter on the pillow beneath her

happy to no longer expect the dead perfection of museum art, but embrace the sweet lovely mess that is real life.

Each gray hair still seemed like a weevil in a flower bed.

I fell in love with my country—its rivers, prairies, forests, mountains, cities and people. . . . It could be a paradise on earth if it belonged to the people, not to a small owning class. —Elizabeth Gurley Flynn

Who could believe that in such overwhelming beauty exists such fragility?