Quotes About Beauty

More matter for a May morning.

When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rime,In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have express'dEven such a beauty as you master now.

Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,Shall win my love.

I have seen better faces in my timeThan stands on any shoulder that I seeBefore me at this instant.

Death, death: O, amiable lovely death!

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,Such seems your beauty still.

She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

[He] curses all Eve's daughters, of what complexion soever.

Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

From fairest creatures we desire increase,That thereby beauty's rose might never die.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away...

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of nightLike a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field.

But, soft what light through yonder window breaks It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.

There is nothing in the world more beautiful than the forest clothed to its very hollows in snow. It is the still ecstasy of nature, wherein every spray, every blade of grass, every spire of reed, every intricacy of twig, is clad with radiance.