Quotes About Beauty

Expression is the mystery of beauty.

I saw and loved.

Lord, crown our faith's endeavor with beauty and with grace, till, clothed in light forever, we see thee face to face: a joy no language measures; a fountain brimming o'er; an endless flow of pleasures; an ocean without shore.

Around us even as its colorful weather moves us, Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets. And every year there is a brief, startling moment When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; It is the changing light of fall falling on us. ""Fall

There is always something about them that evades the understanding, and I have tried to remain aware that, as Paul Valéry has put it, "The power of verse is derived from an indefinable harmony between what it says and what it is. Indefinable is essential to the definition.

A mountain with a wolf on it stands a little taller.

Maybe I am not very human - all I ever wanted to do was to paint sunlight on the side of a house.

This then is the scribe's direct purpose: the making of useful things legibly beautiful.

No matter how sophisticated, how cynical the public may become about publicity methods, it must respond to the basic appeals, because it will always need food, crave amusement, long for beauty, respond to leadership. If

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.

O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!

My thoughts are like butterflies. They are beautiful, but they fly away." After treatment he said, "Now I can put a net around the butterflies.

My thoughts are like butterflies. They are beautiful, but they fly away.

A trouble - nothing as beautiful as a sorrow - rose to the surface of his mind, displayed its ungainliness and sank. Its precise nature he did not ask himself, for his hour was not yet, but the hint was appalling, and, hero though he was, he longed to be a little boy again, and to stroll half awake for ever by the colourless sea.

Ho una teoria… su Miss Honeychurch. Le sembra logico che suoni il pianoforte in modo così meraviglioso e faccia una vita tanto tranquilla? Credo che un giorno la sua vita sarà meravigliosa come il suo modo di suonare. I suoi compartimenti stagni si romperanno, e musica e vita si fonderanno l'una nell'altra.»

Splendor awaits in minute proportions.

Don't you know that there's another bubble as well An expectations bubble. Bigger houses private planes yachts ...... stupid salaries and bonuses. People come to desire these things and expect them. But the expectations bubble will burst as well as all bubbles do. Come to my gallery and I will sell you beautiful things at a more reasonable price. But the point is that they will have value. Things of real beauty things of the spirit.

Barrymore turned on the charm, making her feel they were both professionals involved in a silly enterprise unworthy of their talents. When the time came for them to align their silhouettes, he whispered, "You are so goddamned beautiful you make me feel faint." Mary, as she later revealed in her memoir, was instantly, madly, and completely in love with him, and he apparently with her—since even the most expert seducer may occasionally transcend himself.

With her curling blond hair and her slender limbs and her beautiful clothes, Inez was alluring in an obvious way, and yet it was easy enough to see that her slightly protruding blue eyes were blank screens of self-love on which a small selection of fake emotions was allowed to flicker.

Photography records the gamut of feelings written on the human face, the beauty of the earth and skies that man has inherited, and the wealth and confusion man has created. It is a major force in explaining man to man.

I knew, of course, that trees and plants had roots, stems, bark, branches and foliage that reached up toward the light. But I was coming to realize that the real magician was light itself.

An acre of land between the shore and the hills... A garden I need never go beyond, Broken but neat, whose sunflowers every one Are fit to be the sign of the Rising Sun...

The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught...

Today I think Only with scents,—scents dead leaves yield, And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, And the square mustard field... It is enough To smell, to crumble the dark earth...