Quotes About Beauty

O all fair lovers about the world, There is none of you, none, that shall comfort me. My thoughts are as dead things, wrecked and whirled Round and round in a gulf of the sea; And still, through the sound and the straining stream, Through the coil and chafe, they gleam in a dream, The bright fine lips so cruelly curled, And strange swift eyes where the soul sits free.

Behold, when thy face is made bare, he that loved thee shall hate; Thy face shall be no more fair at the fall of thy fate For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be shed as the rain; And the veil of thine head shall be grief, and the crown shall be pain.

You have a face that suits a woman For her soul's screen-- The sort of beauty that's called human In hell, Faustine.

You came, and the sun came after, And the green grew golden above; And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter, And the meadowsweet shook with love

In a land of sand and ruin and gold There shone one woman, and none but she

And a bird overhead sang Follow, And a bird to the right sang Here; And the arch of the leaves was hollow, And the meaning of May was clear.

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; The heavy white limbs, and the cruel Red mouth like a venomous flower; When these have gone by with their glories, What shall rest of thee then, what remain, O mystic and somber Delores, Our Lady of Pain?

In understanding the widespread use of skin-lightening creams among black women in South Africa, the USA, the UK, and many other societies, from Brazil and the Philippines to Nigeria, Ghana, Kenya, and the Caribbean, the role of white colonialism by the British, Spanish, and Portuguese cannot be underestimated.

He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life. But he really looked like a girl. She was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen in my life.

Oh. To be filled with goodness then shattered by goodness, so beautifully mosaically fragmented by such shocking goodness.

beauty in its most completeness is never found in a single body but is something shared instead between more than one body.

I went outside mournful, and I hit pure air. The air was full of birdsong. I went outside expecting rain but it was sunny, it was so suddenly, so openly sunny, with so sharp a spring light coming off the river, that I went down the side of the riverbank and sat in among the daffodils.

The trees are revealing their structures. There's the catch of fire in the air. All the souls are out marauding. But there are roses, there are still roses. In the damp and the cold, on a bush that looks done, there's a wide-open rose, still.

there were yellow flowers dropping off the trees : they landed with a sound : who knew flowers had a voice?

Friends are always pretty, even when they're not.

Beauty is the true way to change things for the better. To make things better. There should be a lot more beauty in all our lives. Beauty is truth, truth beauty. There is no such thing as fake beauty. Which is why beauty is so powerful. Beauty assuages.

Because when I think about what it was like to live with you, it was like all these things. It was like living in a poem or a picture, a story, a piece of music, when I think of it now. It was wonderful.

She has found by experience that she is in a world where female emancipation is a password and not a fact—she is beautiful, therefore she should not be clever.

Daniel in the gallery sees one of her hands, the one on the rail of the witness box, cover itself in little shoots and buds. The buds split open. There are leaves coming out of her fingers.

But pure joy! He'd forgotten what it feels like, to feel. To feel even just the thought of one's own bared self near someone else's beauty.

But I prefer the windy days, the days that strip me back, blasted, tossed, who knows where, imagine them, purple-red, silver-pink, natural confetti, thin, fragile, easily crushed and blackened, fading already wherever the air's taken them across the city, the car parks, the streets, the ragged grass verges, dog-ear and adrift on the surfaces of the puddles, flat to the gutter stones, mixing with the litter, their shards of colour circling in the leafy-grimy corners of yards.

Herbales y verbales. El lenguaje es como las amapolas. Solo requiere que algo remueva la tierra a su alrededor para que las palabras que estaban dormidas broten rojas, lozanas, meciéndose al viento. Luego las semillas caen al suelo por el movimiento de las inflorescencias. Y crean más palabras que esperan para brotar.

It is possible, he said, to be in love not with someone but with their eyes. I mean, with how eyes that aren't yours let you see where you are, who you are.

Språk är som vallmoblommor. Allt som krävs är något som rör om i jorden och när något väl gör det, upp kommer orden, klarröda, friska, fladdrande i vinden. Sedan frökapslar som rasslar, ut faller frön. Så finns det ännu mer språk som bara väntar på att gro.