Quotes About Beauty

Even in her cap and gown Susan looked like a sunrise, extravagant and full of promise. Wherever she went things seemed, as they always did, to organize around her.

smiled at me again, a smile perfectly capable of launching a thousand ships and very likely to burn the topless towers of Ilium. We

Susan came down the hall in a white dress that fit her well. She looked like she was receiving an Academy Award for stunningness. I

her hair. But fantasy

Wouldn't you think," Marcy said, "with all that money and all that time on their hands, nobody works, that these women could manage to look better than they do?" "Well it's not like they all married Tom Selleck," Jesse said.

Her arms and shoulders and neck were strong. Her makeup was perfect. Her face was dominated by her eyes. Her face hinted strongly at intelligence and heat. Excellent combination.

She wore a lot of makeup, badly applied. There was lipstick on her teeth. If she'd been a dancer, it must have been in Fantasia.

A foolish man tells a woman to stop talking, a wise man tells her that her mouth looks extremely beautiful when her lips are closed.

The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven— All's right with the world!

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .

It is the glory and good of Art That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth - to mouths like mine, at least.

O lyric love! half angel half bird

we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted – better to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out.

I find earth not gray but rosy; Heaven not grim but fair of hue. Do I stoop? I pluck a posy; Do I stand and stare? All's blue.

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you—-poor, sick, old ere your time—- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin, Seem nigh on bursting,—if you nearly see The real world through the false,—what do you see? Is the old so ruined? You find you 're in a flock O' the youthful, earnest, passionate—genius, beauty, Rank and wealth also, if you care for these: And all depose their natural rights, hail you, (That 's me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow, Participate in Sludgehood

Rhyme for a Child Viewing a Naked Venus in a Painting of "The Judgement of Paris" He gazed and gazed and gazed and gazed, Amazed, amazed, amazed, amazed.

There is to truer truth attainable to man than comes of music.

Just when we are safest, there's a sunset touch, A fancy from a flower-bell, someone's death, ... The grand Perhaps!

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains - with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me - solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case.

But to have seen thee, and to die so soon!

But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever.

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.

Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gi'es to me.