Quotes About Beauty

There is no truer truth obtainable By Man than comes of music.

I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.

Open my heart, and you will seeGraved inside of it, "Italy."

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles.

The year's at the springAnd day's at the morn;Morning's at seven;The hillside'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.

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.

The curious crime, the fineFelicity and flower of wickedness.

Oh, to be in England now that April's there,And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!

It was roses, roses all the way.

God is the perfect poet.

On a day like today I am stung by the splendor of a sudden thought.

The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air.

Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,Thou's met me in an evil hour;For I maun crush amang the stoureThy slender stem:To spare thee now is past my pow'r,Thou bonie gem.

John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw,But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo!

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dearsHer noblest work she classes, O:Her prentice han' she tried on man,An' then she made the lasses, O.

She is a winsome wee thing,She is a handsome wee thing,She is a lo'esome wee thing,This sweet wee wife o' mine.

But pleasures are like poppies spread—You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;Or like the snow falls in the river—A moment white—then melts forever.

O, my Luve is like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June.O, my Luve is like the melodie,That's sweetly played in tune.

The golden hours on angel wingsFlew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.

Green grow the rashes, O;Green grow the rashes, O;The sweetest hours that e'er I spendAre spent among the lasses, O.

Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon,How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae weary fu' o' care!Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,That wantons thro' the flowering thorn!Thou minds me o' departed joys,Departed never to return.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.