Quotes About Beauty

And you as well must die, beloved dust, And all your beauty stand you in no stead; This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, This body of flame and steel, before the gust.

Lie down beside these waters That bubble from the spring; Hear in the desert silence The desert sparrow sing; Draw from the shapeless moment Such pattern as you can; And cleave henceforth to Beauty; Expect no more from man. Man, with his ready answer, His sad and hearty word, For every cause in limbo, For every debt deferred, For every pledge forgotten, His eloquent and grim Deep empty gaze upon you,— Expect no more from him.

The poem is the thing. Is it interesting? – Is it beautiful? –Is it sublime? Then it was written by nobody. It exists by itself.

How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo and Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way? Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose? The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel!

If you walk east at daybreak from the town To the cliff's foot, by climbing steadily You cling at noon whence there is no way down But to go toppling backward to the sea. And not for birds nor birds' eggs, so they say, But for a flower that in these fissures grows, Forms have been seen to move throughout the day Skyward; but what its name is no one knows. 'Tis said you find beside them on the sand This flower, relinquished by the broken hand.

Afternoon on a Hill" I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!

I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slating silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees.

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!

AUTUMN CHANT Now the autumn shudders In the rose's root, Far and wide the ladders Lean among the fruit. Now the autumn clambers Up the trellised frame And the rose remembers The dust from which it came. Brighter than the blossom On the rose's bough Sits the wizened, orange, Bitter berry now; Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.

No matter what I say, All that I really love Is the rain that flattens on the bay, And the eel-grass in the cove; The jingle-shells that lie and bleach At the tide-line, and the trace Of higher tides along the beach: Nothing in this place.

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.

I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.

I dread no more the first white in my hair, Or even age itself, the easy shoe, The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: Time, doing this to me, may alter too My anguish, into something I can bear

There are no lines in nature, only areas of colour, one against another.

Qui donc a dit que le dessin est l'écriture de la forme? La vérité est que l'art doit être l'écriture de la vie.

An art aims, above all, at producing something beautiful which affects not our feelings but the organ of pure contemplation, our imagination.

Grant that the true organ with which the beautiful is apprehended is the imagination, and it follows that all arts are likely to affect the feelings indirectly.

Nunca pude soportar ver salir el sol después de una tormenta. Mi idea de un día de lluvia es que debe llover hasta la noche. Que el sol salga a la mañana siguiente, vaya y pase, pero ¿así?... Que el sol interrumpa donde nadie lo llama... En los días de lluvia el sol es un intruso imperdonable

Me encantan los días de lluvia. Desde chico. Siempre me ha parecido una imbecilidad que la gente hable de "mal tiempo" cuando llueve. ¿Mal tiempo por qué?

Si ahora están en silencio, si ahora en ese silencio están interrogándose, si no quiebran ese silencio en el que están interrogandose con una sonrisa muda, es porque nada los retiene allí salvo eso, salvo estar sencillamente el uno frente al otro, dejando pasar el tiempo sin más objeto que tenerse cerca, y eso es lo bello de estar en silencio interrogándose

Your face encompasses the beauty of the whole earth. Your lips, as red as ripening fruit, gently part as if in pain. It is the smile of a corpse. Now the hand of death touches life. The chain is forged that links the thousand families that are dead to the thousand generations to come.

Hayworth's marriage made her a princess, but her feet made her a queen.

I try to think of a favorite among my arid-country flowers. But I love them all. How could we be true to one without being false to all the others?

When I write "paradise" I mean not only apple trees and golden women but also scorpions and tarantulas and flies, rattlesnakes and Gila monsters, sandstorms, volcanoes and earthquakes, bacteria and bear, cactus, yucca, bladderweed, ocotillo and mesquite, flash floods and quicksand, and yes -- disease and death and the rotting of flesh.