Quotes About Beauty

Often the first poem is the hardest, the one caught by a lifetime of being smaller than you are, trapped by your ideas of what art is, what an artist is, immobilized by the judgments of teachers whose names you may never again remember. How did we come to forget that anything true is beautiful? How young were we then?

To mock at her form was an indirect accusation of her Creator, who framed her after the fashion He liked best, and gave her a mind that far excelled the transient endowments of perishable flesh.

Many-colored mosses, sickly green, pale, feverish red, yellow like fear, black like despair, purple like the lips of a strangled man, clung there.

People, through finding something 'beautiful,' think something else 'unbeautiful

I don't love dolls. I love women. I love their bodies.

He was afflicted by the thought that where Beauty was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which no doubt, was why so many people looked on it as immoral.

It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.

Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

He might wish and wish and never get it - the beauty and the loving in the world!

I saw two clouds at morning Tinged by the rising sun, And in the dawn they floated on And mingled into one.

How the mother is to be pitied who hath handsome daughters! Locks, bolts, bars, and lectures of morality are nothing to them: they break through them all. They have as much pleasure in cheating a father and mother, as in cheating at cards.

I don't just wish you rain, Beloved - I wish you the beauty of storms...

it must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul...

and here's a secret for you - everything beautiful is sad...gilded with impermanence...

when I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears...

when I met you, you were so beautiful, the air around you vibrated with color ...

allowing yourself to be vulnerable makes you weak but also opens you to the nuances of beauty...

you have a terrible beauty that scares me - a fierce defiance that won't be subdued - not that i want to tame you - I don't - I like to look...

and you thought beauty was the outward show - but now you know the truth, my Love - it's always been the inner fire...

I'm innocent still -inside me are stained glass windows that have never been broken- and when I see your light it stains my soul with color ...

Neruda was right about all mysterious women - The moon lives in the lining of their skin...

once I saw you in moonlight and I can tell you - the silvery dust of the stars doesn't shimmer like you...

when I see you, I see mystery - a pale moon's beauty behind a veil of cloud

only darkened trails of rain could paint your face upon a pane...