Quotes About Beauty

he walked back home, pausing to marvel at the stars. Many of which no longer existed. Just their light." Chapter 10 · Page 87 · Location 1533

The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay crisp and crackling beneath his feet. Picking one up he marvelled, not for the first time, at the perfection of nature where leaves were most beautiful at the very end of their lives.

In old Quebec City, "magnificent" wasn't measured in square feet, but in details.

Ring the bells that still can ring, Forget your perfect offering, There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.

a single bright orange leaf lost its grip and wafted back and forth, gently falling to the ground.

she'd forgotten snow could be quite so beautiful. Snow, in her experience, was something that needed to be removed. It was a chore that fell from the sky. But

here" was the garden of the Musée Rodin, in Paris,

Cardinal Monkeyflower

Armand Gamache looked across to the deep green midsummer forest and the mountains that rolled into eternity. Then his eyes dropped to the village in the valley below them, as though held in the palm of an ancient hand. A stigmata in the Québec countryside. Not a wound, but a wonder.

violent death did that. It was an eclipse, blocking out all that was beautiful, joyous, kind or lovely. So great was the calamity.

Your soul shines through even if you haven't got mascara on

Lots of men are like that, their artistic leanings never go beyond a weakness for shapely thighs.

I think how the world is still somehow beautiful even when I feel no joy at being alive within it.

No one knows how precious you are. You are a diamond in the rough and with a little polishing, you will shine," Pa whispers softly.

When night comes, the gods again taunt us with a radiant sunset. "Nothing should be this beautiful," I quietly say to Chou. "The gods are playing tricks on us. How could they be so cruel and still make the sky so lovely?". My words tug at my heart. It is unfair of the gods to show us beauty when I am in so much pain and anguish. "I want to destroy all the beautiful things.

Religion as a vital issue is dead except on paper, and whatever beauty-baiting the future may witness will be the work of greed and trade, and not of honest cosmos-facing.

Naturally one would rather be a broad artist with power to evoke beauty from every phase of experience--but when one unmistakably isn't such an artist, there's no sense in bluffing and faking and pretending that one is.

But when he came to study those who had thrown off the old myths, he found them even more ugly than those who had not. They did not know that beauty lies in harmony, and that loveliness of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the dreams and the feelings which have gone before and blindly moulded our little spheres out of the rest of chaos.

In my actual imaginative contact with life, I am vastly more responsive to beauty than to horror--indeed, I never experience real cosmic horror except in infrequent nightmares. However, when I come to record my various imaginative experiences, I generally find that only the horror items have any uniqueness or originality. Others have seen the same beautiful things that I have seen, & have sung them more nobly.

Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart.

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair, and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli?s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver?

You are cold and flame. You are the crimson of amaryllis, The silver of moon-touched magnolias. When I am with you, My heart is a frozen pond Gleaming with agitated torches.