Quotes About Beauty

Once taken by her, you glowed And you drank her poisons, content. Because all the stars seemed to grow, And fields had a different scent, Autumn fields.

Autumn, whispering through the maples, Pleaded: 'Die here with me!

I'm happy. But some beauty is nonesuch - The gently sloping path across the wood, The wretched bridge that's just a little skewed And that, for which, I won't be waiting much.

Beyond the lake the waning moon has slowed, And stands there like a window open wide Into a hushed and brightly lit abode Where something dreadful has occurred inside.

God is unkind to gardeners and reapers. Slanted rain coils and falls from up high And the wide raincoats catch water, That once had reflected the sky. In underwater realm are fields and meadows And the free currents sing a lot, Plums rupture on bloated branches And grass strands, lying down, rot. And through the dense and watery net I see your darling face, A quiet park, a round porch And a Chinese arbour-place.

How I love, how I loved to stare At the ironclad shores, On the balcony, where forever No foot stepped, not mine, not yours. And in truth you are -- a capital For the mad and luminous us; But when over Nieva sail Those special, pure hours And the winds of May fly over You past the iron beams You are like a dying sinner Seeing heavenly dreams...

And if you knew from what scraps Poems are born — without shame Like yellow dandelions by a wormy fence, Like wild spinach or the common burr.

O, insomnia, you've come to me anew! And your expression is, like always, frozen. Tell me, beauty, tell me, outlaw - you, Don't you like the songs I've chosen?  

It seems as though the voice of man Will never sound in this place, But only wind from age of stone Is knocking on black gates. It seems to me that I alone Have kept good health under this sky, Because of this, that first I sought To drink the deadly wine. Parting, Evening and slanting, Downward goes my way. Yesterday in love still, "Don't forget" you prayed. Now there's only shepherds' Cry, and glancing winds, And the worried cedars Stand by clear springs.

All promised him to me: The heaven's edge, dark and kind, And lovely Christmas sleep And multi-ringing Easter wind, And the red branches of a twig, And waterfalls inside a park, And two dragonflies On rusty iron of a bulwark. And I could not disbelieve, That he'll befriend me all alone When on the mountain slopes I went Along hot pathway made of stone.

An as it's going often at love's breaking, The ghost of first days came again to us, The silver willow through window then stretched in, The silver beauty of her gentle branches. The bird began to sing the song of light and pleasure To us, who fears to lift looks from the earth, Who are so lofty, bitter and intense, About days when we were saved together.

If you were a star, I would gaze by the window till dawn

There was nothing on any of the canvasses that she would have liked to hide or conceal, nor was she ashamed of being thus exposed through her work, good or bad though it might be, the essence, the unique flavour of days when she had been happily engrossed in recreating a face or a garment, in inventing an effective light, in applying an expressive glaze.

Nature-study cultivates in the child a love of the beautiful . . . a perception of color, form and music . . But more than all, nature-study gives the child a sense of companionship with life out-of-doors and an abiding love of nature.

What artist could recreate Sidonie's sensuous beauty? No mere dauber could capture the feminine musk on the air. Or depict the soft, uneven pattern of her breathing. Her skin was flushed. A pulse fluttered in the hollow of her throat. Her lips were full and dark, although he'd hardly kissed her. Over and over in the mirrors, she emerged from the loosened gown like a water lily from a lake. He loomed over her like a nightmare.

He forced himself to sound careless, no matter that her proximity stirred his senses so powerfully. The sun flooding through the window lit rich colors in her opulent hair. Flax. Gold. Auburn.

She's yours?" "Aye." He'd ridden down from London in easy stages to avoid having to trust to hired hacks. "She's a beauty." She stroked Saraband's silky nose. The horse extended her neck for more attention. "Far too fine to stay out in the rain." His lips twitched. He'd offer Cinderella half his fortune if she'd describe him in similar terms.

Her hair was a tangle. Her filthy clothes would make any self-respecting debutante shriek in horror. Dirt streaked her piquant face. And still he thought she was utterly irresistible. He was in a bad way indeed. Several

She'd piled her hair high, leaving silky tendrils to tease bare shoulders. How he longed to festoon that slender neck with cascades of rubies. Rubies, diamonds, pearls, emeralds. Never sapphires. Not even the finest sapphires could rival the beauty of her eyes. He had no jewels to offer, only his longing, loving heart.

A hint of triumph lit the girl's face, made her dark beauty blaze like a torch. "My sister is beyond your reach, Mr. Merrick." "You're not." He flavored his smile with menace.

This moment is in the tradition of protest poetry and art that goes back centuries. I hope that this pain will lead to beautiful works of arts."-Anna Deavere Smith

Sometimes the most beautiful thing is precisely the one that comes unexpectedly and unearned.

What surprises me about living here is that, no matter how much is taken out, this linoleum palace continues to contain all the necessities for life, at the same time as it refuses to admit a single thing, either accidentally or arranged, of beauty or joy. In this, I think, it is much like East Germany itself.

On vieillit et on réalise qu'il n'y a rien de plus sexy que la gentillesse.