Quotes About Beauty

its romantic embellishments – a

O Atlântico é uma cama de plumas de cisne, o futuro é feito de plumas e nuvens e Sarangerel. (...) Uma vida inteira a sonhar com uma pessoa, imaginando um leito de plumas de cisne tão macio, ou a sombra acariciante de um coqueiro.

Fui dar uma olhadela à floresta-rainha, o Mayombe, claro. (...) fui apenas respirar um pouco aqueles ares e rever os desenhos das sombras nas folhagens das árvores descomunais. Só queria apreciar de novo as centenas de tonalidades do verde que transpareciam pelo sol e seus reflexos nos troncos indo do negro ao amarelo. Os antigos cheiros voltavam a brincar com o meu nariz, os cheiros da floresta nunca esquecem.

Mas me concedam, ó deuses inexistentes e apesar disso cruéis, a consolação de falar uma hora com ela e de poder contemplar aquele rosto redondo de Lua Cheia.

I see the shape of the wind on the water...

Isn't it fun,' she said and she smiled. I let the oars rest in the rowlocks. The water around the boat fell silent, and silently the cabin was floating up above the rocks and the smoke rose softly from the chimney, and how impossible it was to grasp that in the end something as fine as this could be ground into dust.

There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!

Best and brightest, come away!

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

Forms more real than living man,Nurslings of immortality!

...'tis He, arrayed In the soft light of his own smiles, which spread Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded moon....

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrateWith thine own hues all thou dost shine uponOf human thought or form.

The great secret of morals is love; or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person not our own…. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination; and poetry administers to the effect by acting upon the cause.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert,That from Heaven, or near it,Pourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!

Peace is in the grave.The grave hides all things beautiful and good:I am a God and cannot find it there.

To that high capital, where kingly DeathKeeps his pale court in beauty and decay,He came.

A lovely lady, garmented in lightFrom her own beauty.

The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.

He is made one with Nature: there is heardHis voice in all her music, from the moanOf thunder to the song of night's sweet bird.

Far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea.

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,Spirit of Delight!