Quotes About Beauty

If it weren't for music, I would think that love is mortal.

To see the beauty of the world is to put your hands on lines that run uninterrupted through life and through death. Touching them is an act of hope, for perhaps someone on the other side, if there is another side, is touching them, too.

And how does God speak to you?" "In the language of everything that is beautiful.

A good river is nature's life work in song.

For what can be imagined more beautiful than the sight of a perfectly just city rejoicing in justice alone.

Don't get me wrong, I admire elegance and have an appreciation of the finer things in life. But to me, beauty lies in simplicity.

Love evokes in us all an unconscious memory of the beauty of the Ideas, and this memory maddens us; we feel possessed by a frenzied yearning to couple and to "beget in the beautiful," as

The flower doesn't dream of the bee. It blossoms and the bee comes.

Light is in both the broken bottle and the diamond.

Birding is hunting without killing, preying without punishing, and collecting without clogging your home.

That was the thing about Levantin: he loved the birds, but he really loved the places they brought him. When you spend your career in the confines of a gray suit, the pipits at dawn above timberline are even more wondrous.

Given the world, given the situation, the question that remains is whether having children is a statement of hope, an insistence on the beauty and meaningfulness and basic worth of being here, or an act of human sacrifice.

Love is much like a wild rose, beautiful and calm, but willing to draw blood in its defense.

Pictures must be miraculous.

In the fire of his embrace, all that was her ceased to exist. Only what was God remained. I am. The cloisterbell, the voice of Christ. He spoke again: I am. She tried to obey but was frozen in beauty, like a fly trapped in amber. She could not move. Nothing exists apart from me. Self had been an illusion, a dream. God dreaming.

I am fond of the sound of horses in the night. The lifting of feet. Stamping. The clicking of their iron shoes against rock. They mouth one anothers withers and rear and squeal and whirl and shuffle and cough and stand and snort. There is the combined rumblings of each individual gut. They sound larger than they are. The air tastes of horses, ripples as though come alive with their good-hearted strength and stamina.

One of the best things about paintings is their silence — which prompts reflection and random reverie.

If a man finishes a poem,he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passionand be kissed by white paper.

A life is not sufficiently elevated for poetry, unless, of course, the life has been made into an art.

Poetry is, first and last, language - the rest is filler.

Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.

I]t was the way The ruined moonlight fell across her hair, It was that, and it was more. — Mark Strand, from section II of "What It Was," Blizzard of One: Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 1998)

Don't chew on the bad things that happen to you, dear. Try to see the beauty in every cruelty. It sets you free. Forgive hurt if you want to heal a broken heart. Try to be grateful for every setback or tragedy, because by living through them, you become stronger.

Don't chew on the bad things that happen to you, dear. Try to see the beauty in every cruelty. It sets you free. Forgive hurt if you want to heal a broken heart. Try to be grateful for every setback or tragedy, because by living through them, you become stronger. I see the hand of God in that.