Quotes About Beauty

Carnations, peach and lemon and cherry. Too many people (Europeans, really) consider carnations to be nothing but a vulgar American indulgence, but in my opinion, there is no blossom more intricate, more deliciously, thickly, fragrantly lavish, than a carnation.

He really did want to leave her alone. Forever. Every time they crossed paths he became more and more entangled. He didn't know why. It wasn't as though she was charming or pleasant. But she was beautiful and seductive as hell. Damn it! Chapter 7

Lavina loved the freedom and wildness in Sarah's garden, so unlike her mother's well- ordered, colour- coordinated beds. (53)

Even the tiniest of flowers can have the toughest roots.

Due to their short bloom time, Sakura blossoms are a metaphor for life itself: beautiful yet fleeting. You'll realize when you're as old as me to hang on to the good times because they won't last forever.

Her eyes remind me of the Pacific: Raging. Fearless. Restless.

The forest is blanketed by the greenest ferns and moss and bonsai-like trees, a wild majesty that beckons hobbits and pixies and elves and dreamers.

Hell hath no fury like a woman deprived of her toiletries.

Ellen had always loved the rain. She didn't understand why people rushed through it, avoided it and ducked out of it, but she was glad.

My middle name, Tree, comes from your basic tree, a thing of such beauty to my mother that she made it part of my name.

To look in the mirror and like what you see, even when it doesn't look like your idea of beauty.

To look in the mirror and like what you see even if it's not your idea of beauty

It takes a long time to accept yourself for who you are. To see the poetry in your walk," she says, shaking her hips like she's doing some African dance. Kids bust out laughing. "To look in the mirror and like what you see, even when it doesn't look like anybody else's idea of beauty." For a minute

He looked upon this verdant, blossoming spring, a spring Joanna would never see, he looked upon a field of brilliant blue flowers- the bluebells Joanna had so loved- and at that moment he'd willingly have bartered all his tomorrows for but one yesterday.

Sea rose canes bear thorns, just like their hybrid sisters

Words have always swirled around me like snowflakes-each one delicate and different, each one melting untouched in my hands.

Perfection is fragile; interacting with something that seems perfect puts it in peril.

the Hindu did not think in terms of good and evil. 'Evil has reference to the distance which good has to traverse. Ugliness is halfway to beauty. Error is a stage on the road to truth.

I can see the color of the grass deepening, becoming impossibly green the way it does in early spring when you've almost stopped believing that things will ever grow again. Right now it looks like each individual blade has been painted, and I wonder who will notice these things when I'm gone.

That ruin is beautiful," he declared, and added: "But it is more than this, it is emblematic also.… Is it not in some respects an image of the human soul, once ruined by the fall, yet with gleams of beauty and energetic striving after strength, surrounded by dangers and watching, against its foes?

This was mainly a brown country, cluttered with dead leaves from the year before, but the oaks had tasseled and the redbud limbs were like flames in the wind. Fruit trees in cabin yards, peach and pear and occasional quince, were sheathed with bloom, white and pink, twinkling against broken fields and random cuts of new grass washed clean by the rain.

Do you think I'm pretty?" Smitty glanced away from the computer screen he'd been staring at for the last three hours, looked at his sister, and shook his head. "No." "What do ya mean no?" "You asked. Sorry if you didn't like the answer. I always thought you were funny lookin'. Asked momma, 'What is that thing laying in your bed?' And she said, 'I found it hiding under a car, you be nice to it now.

Grass! Millions of square miles of it. . . . a hundred rippling oceans, each ripple a gleam of scarlet or amber, emerald or turquoise. . . . the colors shivering over the prairies. . . . Sapphire seas of grass with dark islands of grass bearing great plumy trees which are grass again.

It seems to me sometimes all beauty is dying. Which makes me hope that perhaps it isn't dead but only sleeping. And that makes me think of Sleeping Beauty and wonder if she, Beauty that is, might not be a metaphor for what is happening to the world at large: perfect Beauty born, Beauty cursed with death, Beauty dying - but with the magical hope of being reawakened, maybe by love.