Quotes About Beauty

the teeming plant life rejoices on the lawns free from all interference from men and hoes;

But he felt too confident in Catherine's beautiful nature to be afraid of Ned. Catherine, who loved beauty, who was so much moved by it—witness her rapt face at The Immortal Hour—would never listen to blandishments from anyone with Ned's nose. Besides, Ned was elderly. In spite of the fur rug up to his chin, Christopher had seen that all right. He was an elderly, puffy man. Elderliness and love! He grinned to himself. If only the elderly could see themselves….

I sit there in my bed staring at the wall, feeling happy, enjoying the way the wall looks, how pink and how white it is. Pink and white, as far as I'm concerned, have never looked quite so pink and white before.

Never was there any one so beautiful as [he]... The wolves did not ravage, the frost winds did not bite...

Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again.

This choreography of ruin, the world breaking like glass under a microscope, the way it doesn't crack all at once, but spreads out from the damaged cavities. Still for a moment it all recedes. The backyard potatoes swell quietly buried beneath their canopy of leaves. The wind rubs its hands through the trees.

You can look at my life and say there've been some real tragedies, and there have been. But there've also been some exquisitely beautiful times. To me, those far outweigh the others.

My raven," she would say, reaching up and rippling it like cloth, "my darkness, my silky child, my night river

An ellipse of pale rose sand lines the inside of a river bend of such beauty, you could set yourself on fire with the rapture of that curve. In it lies a kind of music in stone that might cure all emptiness.

The river was gilded in every ripple with capricious, scintillating light.

worn to cobweb fragility, like the skins of very old men, that bruise and stain at the mere brushing of the breeze, and flower into brown blotches as the leaves into rotting gold. The colours of late autumn are the colours of the sunset: the farewell of the year and the farewell of the day. And of the life of man? Well, if it ends in a flourish of gold, that is no bad ending.

It is conventional to call 'monster' any blending of dissonant elements. I call 'monster' every original inexhaustible beauty.

Just as the poppy and the dandelion are scythed down in the flower of their youth by the pitiless scythe of the pitiless scyther who pitilessly scythes their pitiful pans, so poor Renski has played the pretty poppy's pitiful part.

Punctul final al c?l?toriei lor era un castel în apropierea c?rora se aflau ele?tee. Au ajuns la aceste ele?tee într-o minunat? dup?-amiaz? de var? târzie. Cerul era atât de albastru încât Gottfried nu s-a jenat s?-i spun? tat?lui: "Uite ce albastru e cerul aici".

The sky is that beautiful old parchment in which the sun and the moon keep their diary.

In appearance, the Endurance was beautiful by any standards.

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable,Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat.

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,And most divinely fair.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,And after many a summer dies the swan.

Half light, half shade,She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.

She is coming, my own, my sweet;Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.