Quotes About Beauty

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

The town does not exist except where one black-haired tree slips up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.

From the Garden" Come, my beloved, consider the lilies. We are of little faith. We talk too much. Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks. Let us consider the view: a house where white clouds decorate the muddy halls. Oh, put away your good words and your bad words. Spit out your words like stones! Come here! Come here! Come eat my pleasant fruits.

The Fury of Sunsets" Something cold is in the air, an aura of ice and phlegm. All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it. The horizon bleeds and sucks its thumb. The little red thumb goes out of sight. And I wonder about this lifetime with myself, this dream I'm living. I could eat the sky like an apple but I'd rather ask the first star: why am I here? why do I live in this house? who's responsible? eh?

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself... ("You, Doctor Martin")

The butterfly owns her now. It covers her and her wounds.

Poems reach me, and hold me, and give me pleasure.

We moved like angels washing themselves. We moved like two birds on fire. — Anne Sexton, from "How We Danced" in "The Death of the Fathers," The Norton Anthology of American Literature , ed. Baym et al, 5th edition, Volume 2, (New York and London: W. W. Norton & Co., 1998)

and she wore gowns as lovely as kisses…

I think language is beautiful. I even think insanity is beautiful (surely the root of language), except that it is painful.

It was built on air and ghosts…it was truly beautiful but it died…because it tried to get real and it was never real.

Tonight the landscape is fired by moonlight and I am thinking of you somehow.

It is without grace. There is no rhythm in this country of dirt.

we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.

Aunque la lluvia maldiga la ventana/ hágase el poema

She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast, sat by the potter's wheel at midday, set forth three children under the moon, three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, done this with her legs spread out in the terrible months in the chapel.

He Said... Your garden at dusk Is the soul of love Blurred in its beauty And softly caressing; I, gently daring This sweetest confessing, Say your garden at dusk Is your soul, My Love.

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but just felt in the heart.

Is it not true, then, that my life with all its limitation touches at many points the life of the World Beautiful? Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be, therein to be content.

It's all going to be okay. She would like to hear that now, even if it was a lie. Because some lies are beautiful. Stories do not tell you that.

It snowed right before Jack stopped talking to Hazel, fluffy white flakes big enough to show their crystal architecture, like perfect geometric poems.

At each step there is a small moment of transformation that cannot be overlooked or rushed. And these moments should not be, because they are beautiful.