Quotes About Beauty

sit on the craggy cliffs of Ballyhock to the waves crashing on the beach. Strong. Powerful. Deadly. A combination so familiar to me it brings me comfort.

Iwatch from where I sit on the craggy cliffs of Ballyhock to the waves crashing on the beach. Strong.

I whisper, losing myself in my native language as I sing her praises. Her beauty and innocence slay me, and my voice is hoarse with the effort of holding back. "Ty takaya krasivaya. Takoy nevinnyy," I murmur. You're so beautiful. So innocent

The nourishment of Cezanne's awkward apples is in the tenderness and alertness they awaken inside us.

Good art is a truing of vision, in the way a saw is trued in the saw shop, to cut more cleanly. It is also a changing of vision. Entering a good poem, a person feels, tastes, hears, thinks, and sees in altered ways. Why ask art into a life at all, if not to be transformed and enlarged by its presence and mysterious means?

Art can be defined as beauty able to transcend the circumstances of its making.

Age in itself gives substance — what has lasted becomes a thing worth keeping. An older poem's increasing strangeness of language is part of its beauty, in the same way that the cracks and darkening of an old painting become part of its luminosity in the viewer's mind.

The griefs of others—beautiful, at a distance.

YÅ«gen's hallmarks [are] mystery and depth .. . . it is characterized by sadness, unspoken connotations, imagery of a veiled, monochromatic nature, and an atmosphere of haunting beauty.

have little to offer in this time when nothing lasts, only that desire to which you come as to a well. Even the language tells it: to satisfy and sadness rooted on one stock, the faithful breathing back towards shadow of everything that once bent to the sun. And still, the long slanting days pull us in, the warmth, the pitch of the hills, and everything in us wants to give over again— Only a little further, a hand's extending, a single word; the mirage, beautiful, beckons us on.

Kintsukuroi is the name for this ancient Japanese art, which teaches that broken objects are not something to hide away but should be displayed with pride, for they are stronger and more beautiful for surviving the breakage. I think I, too, am stronger and more beautiful for surviving

The poet's job is to put into words those feelings we all have that are so deep, so important, and yet so difficult to name, to tell the truth in such a beautiful way, that people cannot live without it.

If it's darkness we're having, let it be extravagant.

Flowers remind us to put away fear, to stop our rushing and running and worrying about this and that, and for a moment have a piece of paradise right here on earth. God offers healing through flowers and brings us closer to Him.

He was beautiful, but he was what he was. A man.

Beauty is a radiance that originates from within and comes from inner security and strong character.

I had ordered long legs, but they never arrived. My eyes are weird too, one is gray and the other is green. I have a crooked smile and my nose looks like a ski slope. No, I would not win a Miss contest.

I discovered that the horse is life itself, a metaphor but also an example of life's mystery and unpredictability, of life's generosity and beauty, a worthy object of repeated and ever changing contemplation.

The buildings, covered by red tiled roofs, undulate over the hillsides like a drift of wildflowers.

She pictured the diaphanous wings of flies glittering like cut coal in the air above her friend's body.

The mountains were so wild and so stark and so very beautiful that I wanted to cry. I breathed in another wonderful moment to keep safe in my heart.

The river is such a tranquil place, a place to sit and think of romance and the beauty of nature, to enjoy the elegance of swans and the chance of a glimpse of a kingfisher.

Blood-coloured bottlebrush trees and scarlet hibiscus looked too bright for this devastated world.

everything was fresh, green and particularly beautiful. Afternoon light, filtering between remnants of monsoon clouds, picked out gullies and spot-lit patches of forest and scrub on the convoluted ridges of the rim of the Kathmandu Valley. Or, after a rainstorm, wisps of clouds clung to the trees as if scared to let go. Behind, himals peeked out shyly between the clouds.