Quotes About Beauty

Nature is the greatest developer of art.

This is why you can with pleasure come back and back and back to a landscape; it is never the same. It is at the same time unchanging and ephemeral, timeless yet particular.

One of the best tricks a garden plays is that you never quite remember how it's going to be, that first day after winter has gone, when you go outside and can stay outside all day fiddling with jobs that aren't pressing enough to weigh heavily but will nevertheless pay dividends. A garden is made up of a thousand small inventions, but each small act is a defence (defiance even) against a world without anchors or safe harbours.

There is little premium in poetry in a world that thinks of Pound and Whitman as a weight and a sampler, not an Ezra, a Walt, a thing of beauty, a joy forever.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky' Rabindranath Tagore

started here. Helen walked back to her hotel slowly, enjoying the cool of the night and the beauty of Paris. The streets were busy, and even in the side street where she crossed to her hotel there were people in the pavement cafés. She toyed with the idea of having one for the road, but decided to call it a night. She had a flight to Grand

kissing is good for the skin.

recent survey indicated that people who've had plastic surgery appeared to have shed only three years on average off of their age. Which three years, I wonder? Fourteen to seventeen were relatively breezy but I barely slept for the first three years of my son's life and if I could reverse that damage, it might be worth it.

Porcelain thus connoted both hardness and plasticity, old-world beauty and new-world technology, fragile daintiness and insensate coolness: a mixture of antithetical symbolic meanings that are then ascribed to, indeed, become the very "stuff" of Asiatic femininity.

This landscape consists of Pablo Casals' cello and four turkey vultures riding the ribbon of warm air rising from the highway. Concrete forms for abstractions my mind can only grope at: the wings and blood, the blue and black and float and soar, the aching beauty.

She's magic, Cassandra. A single flower blooming in an endless desert.

Dear Jean, I have seen a deer. I have petted a pony. I helped plant a garden. I have smelled earth and felt it in my hands. You watched the sun rise. These things are worth the struggle to live outside.

The courtyard kept changing, dazzling her with the flowers that bloomed between one day and the next, with the bare branches of trees that were swollen with the buds of new leaves and then fuzzed with green. Every day, she drove a familiar road through a new place.

Nothing wrong with the way your mother looks. First thing in the morning, last thing at night, and every hour in between, she looks just fine.

Why would I care what you looked like? The flesh was the shell that housed the glory.

Dear Jean, I have seen a deer. I have petted a pony. I helped plant a garden. I have smelled earth and felt it in my hands. You watched the sun rise. These things are worth the struggle to live outside. Your friend, Meg

land." "There was some . . . strangeness . . . about the way the Rose

Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood.

She was the most painful, most glorious dance of his life

Let's assume that we have a set number of days to indent the world with our beliefs, to find and create the beauty that only a finite existence allows for, to wrestle with the question of purpose and wrestle with our answers. (Jonathan Safran Foer, novelist)

But I fear, my lot being cast in Scotland, that beauty would not be content.

In our romantic groves I adored her like a divinity.

Such cold mean flowers the spring puts forth betime, Before the sun hath thoroughly heat the clime.

If we had no winter the spring would not be so pleasant.