Quotes About Beauty

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,In some melodious plotOf beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

I met a lady in the meadsFull beautiful, a faery's child;Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,Drows'd with the fume of poppies while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers.

When old age shall this generation waste,Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woeThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is allYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.

I begin to get a little acquainted with my own strength and weakness.—Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own Works.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

How many bards gild the lapses of time!

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by Singularity—it should strike the Reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a Remembrance.

from ODE to a NIGHTENGALE: Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination. What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth - whether it existed before or not.

Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance.

Though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though the carpet were of silk, the curtains of the morning clouds; the chairs and sofa stuffed with cygnet's down; the food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winander Mere, I should not feel --or rather my happiness would not be so fine, as my solitude is sublime.

What the imagination seizes as beauty must be the truth.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know, and all ye need to know.

Who works 'mongst roses soon will find Their fragrance budding in his mind.

TO A WITHERED ROSE Thy span of life was all too short— A week or two at best— From budding-time, through blossoming, To withering and rest. Yet compensation hast thou—aye!— For all thy little woes; For was it not thy happy lot To live and die a rose?

There is certainly no absolute standard of beauty. That precisely is what makes its pursuit so interesting.

One might as well claim that the tide which rubs pebbles smooth on a beach is doing the pebbles a service because being round is prettier than being jagged. It's of no concern to a pebble what shape it is. But it's very important to a person.