Quotes About Beauty

Surely the flowers of a hundred spring are simply the souls of beautiful things!

After Davy had gone to bed Anne wandered down to Victoria Island and sat there alone, curtained with fine-spun, moonlit gloom, while the water laughed around her in a duet of brook and wind.

I'm so glad my window looks east into the sun rising," said Anne, going over to Diana. "It's so splendid to see the morning coming up over those long hills and glowing through those sharp fir tops. It's new every morning, and I feel as if I washed my very soul in that bath of earliest sunshine. Oh

he world looks like something God had just imagined for His own pleasure. This isn't poetry but it makes me feel the same way as poetry does.

I am grateful that my childhood was spent in a spot where there were many trees, trees of personality, planted and tended by hands long dead, bound up with everything of joy or sorrow that visited our lives. When I have lived with a tree for many years it seems to me like a beloved human companion.

The day had begun sombrely in grey cloud and mist, but had ended in a pomp of scarlet and gold. Over the western hills beyond the harbour were amber deeps and crystalline shadows, with the fire of sunset below. The north was a mackerel sky of little, fiery golden clouds. The red light flamed on the white sails of a vessel gliding down the channel, bound to a Southern port in a land of palms. Beyond her, it smote upon and incarnadined the shining, white, grassless faces of the sand-dunes.

Heaven must be very beautiful, of course, the Bible says so — but, Anne, it won't be what I've been used to.

She said that everything had colour in her thought; the months of the year ran through all the tints of the spectrum, the days of the week were arrayed as Solomon in his glory, morning was golden, noon orange, evening crystal blue, and night violet. Every idea came to her mind robed in its own especial hue. Perhaps that was why her voice and words had such a charm, conveying to the listeners' perception such fine shadings of meaning and tint and music.

Nothing ever seems impossible in spring, you know.

The faint laughter of winds was always about them and the colors of Mistawis, imperial and spiritual, under the changing clouds, were something that cannot be expressed in mere words. Shadows, too. Clustering in the pines until a wind shook them out and pursued them over Mistawis. They lay all day along the shores, threaded by ferns and wild blossoms. They stole around the headlands in the glow of the sunset, until twilight wove them all into one great web of dusk.

Any human companionship, even the dearest and most perfect, would have been alien to her then. She was sufficient unto herself, needing not love nor comradeship nor any human emotion to round out her felicity. Such moments come rarely in any life, but when they do come they are inexpressibly wonderful - as if the finite were for a second infinity - as if humanity were for a space uplifted into divinity - as if all ugliness had vanished, leaving only flawless beauty.

I suppose that's how it looks in prose. But it's very different if you look at it through poetry…and I think it's nicer…' Anne recovered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks flushed… 'to look at it through poetry.

So bright and golden and fair, so free fro shadow and so lavish of blossom.

We'll make friends with the wind and sky and sun, and bring home spring in our hearts.

There is so much in the world for us all if we only have the eyes to see it, and the heart to love it, and the hand to gather it to ourselves.

Her beauty is the least of her dower-and she is the most beautiful woman I've ever known. That laugh of hers! I've angled all summer to evoke that laugh, just for the delight of hearing it.

Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain, but I should not have minded finding that out for myself, if it had been so ordained. I have no doubt we will all be beautiful when we are angels, but what good will it do us then?

Never on painter's canvas lives The charm of his fancy's dream.

I don't believe Old Nick can be so very ugly,' said Aunt Jamesina reflectively. 'He wouldn't do so much harm if he was. I always think of him as a rather handsome gentleman.

Not lovelier. But a different kind of loveliness. There are so many kinds of loveliness.

The stars twinkled through the fir-trees and right and left the harbour range-lights shone like great earth stars. Presently a moon rose and there was a sparkling trail over the harbour like a lady's silken dress.

And every day in heaven will be more beautiful than the one before it Davy, assured Anne.

But I don't want to be a different girl, said Emily decidedly. She had no intention of lowering the Starr flag to Aunt Ruth. I wouldn't want to be anybody but myself even if I am plain. Besides, she added impressively as she turned to go out of the room, though I may not be very good-looking now, when I go to heaven I believe I'll be very beautiful.

Such presumption, said Aunt Laura, meaning for a Dix to aspire to a Murray. It wasn't because of his presumption I packed him off, said Emily. It was because of the way he made love. He made a thing ugly that should have been beautiful. I suppose you wouldn't have him because he didn't propose romantically, said Aunt Elizabeth contemptuously. No. I think my real reason was that I felt sure he was the kind of man who would give his wife a vacuum cleaner for a Christmas present, vowed Emily.