Quotes About Beauty

From the opening lines of the play Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise All you need, To find poetry, Is to look for it with a lantern.

That strange flower, the sun, Is just what you say. Have it your way. The world is ugly, And the people are sad.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendos The blackbird whistling Or just after.

It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

The imperfect is our paradise.

A poet looks at the world as a man looks at a woman.

The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.

Here is a girl who is pretty in a quiet way. I bet she's had a very sad life.

The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all.

I don't like formal gardens. I like wild nature. It's just the wilderness instinct in me, I guess.

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.

Word over all, beautiful as the sky,Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost,That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world;For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead.

Nor for you, for one alone,Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death.

You must not know too much, or be too precise or scientific about birds and trees and flowers and water-craft; a certain free margin, and even vagueness—perhaps ignorance, credulity—helps your enjoyment of these things, and of the sentiment of feather'd, wooded, river, or marine Nature generally.

The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and looked at the crowded heaven.

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. So medicine, law, business, engineering... these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love... these are what we stay alive for.

The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.

The last we saw of them was when they kissed, then beautifully naked walked as if into a sea of bright blue water --- leaving their bodies like old clothes upon the shore.

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who announces salvation, who says to Zion, "Your God reigns." Isa. 52:7

Slowly, silently, now the moonWalks the night in her silver shoon.

Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.