Quotes About Beauty

A garden did not need people in order to be alive and natural. The flowers might have died, and the last leaves might be falling, but the space was still redolent with the odors of life. It contained a thousand reassurances that no matter what one person's strife, the seasons continued their cycle.

When he died, all things soft and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

This, I say. This and this. The way his hair looked in summer sun. His face when he ran. His eyes, solemn as an owl at lessons. This and this and this. So many moments of happiness, crowding forward.

I would say, some people are like constellations that only touch the earth for a season.

The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

He looked different in sleep, beautiful but cold as moonlight. I found myself wishing he would wake so that I might watch the life return.

The rosy gleam of his lip, the fevered gleam of his eyes. There was not a line anywhere on his face, nothing creased or graying; all crisp. He was spring, golden and bright. Envious death would drink his blood, and grow young again.

He knew, but it was not enough. The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

I have aged. When I look in my polished bronze mirror, there are lines upon my face. I am thickened too and my skin has begun growing loose. I cut myself with my herbs and the scars stay. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I am vain and dissatisfied. But I do not wish myself back. Of course my flesh reaches for the earth. That is where it belongs.

His fingers touched the strings and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once.

You make the rarest canvas, love

His eyelids were the color of the dawn sky; he smelled like earth after rain.

For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty?

He looked different in sleep, beautiful but cold as moonlight.

all the grace I saw then was his own: simple, unadorned, glorious.

Everyone looked at me, because I was the most beautiful woman in the town. I don't say this to boast, because there is nothing in it to boast of. It was nothing I did myself.

For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty? It was enough to watch him win, to see the soles of his feet flashing as they kicked up sand, or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pulled through the salt. It was enough. I

and her skin shone luminous and impossibly pale, as if it drank light from the moon.

All I saw was his beauty, his singing limbs, the quick flickering of his feet.

No one would remember his glory, or his honesty, or his beauty; all his gold would be turned to ashes and ruin.

He admired the world like a jewel, turning its facets to catch the light.

When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

After, in the torchlight, he wondered at the marks on me, the red around my neck, and the purple on my arms and chest where he had gripped me. He rubbed at them, as though they were stains, not bruises. "The color is perfect," he said, "look." And he held up the mirror so I could see. "You make the rarest canvas, love.

Tears came, and fell. Above us, the constellations spun, and the moon paced her weary course.