Quotes About Eyes

I like to savor the smell of a garden I cannot see. Do you smell it? The pine, and the lavender—oh, yes, very strongly the lavender. The nose is as important as the eyes. Ask any horticulturist." Poirot chuckled. "I think that if you and I were to meet the one who created this garden, I would make the more favorable impression upon him.

This is impossible." "This what?" I clutch the collar of his shirt in my fingers. His face is so close l study the varying color of his eyes. For a long time, he says nothing. Stares at me in that way that makes me want to squirm. For a moment, it seems that his irises glow and the pupils shrink to slits. Then, he mutters, "A hunter in love with his prey

Cassian looks at me intently, his eyes more black than purple right then. The purple only shows itself when he's feeling emotion. A rarity it seems.

Where else is the gate of life if not in the eyes of your soul?

He placed the soul in the body which He had fashioned. He protects the Creation which He has created. With their eyes, they see, and with their tongues, they speak; with their ears, they bring the mind to awareness. With their feet, they walk, and with their hands, they work; they wear and eat whatever is given.

O Lord my God, what a depth is that recess of Thy mysteries, and how far from it have the consequences of my transgressions cast me! Heal mine eyes, that I may share the joy of Thy light.

Her eyes were like coffee beans, and, when she laughed, they really did seem to crackle like roasting beans.

High and miraculous skies bless and astonish my eyes; All my dead secrets arise, all my dead stories come true. Here is the Gate to the Sea. Once you unlocked it for me; Now, since you gave me the key, shall I unlock it for you?

Her blank eyes burrowed through the fetid air between herself and her visitor. They were without content; hollow pools of meaninglessness. They were not eyes, but voids sunk between two jutting pent-houses of bone and two bloodless hummocks of cheek. They suspended two raw rods of grief before their own immobility, like frozen fountains in a bright wintry air; and on these rods the fluttering rags of a futile grief were hung.

There's something about blue eyes. The kind of blue that startles you every time they're lifted in your direction. The kind of blue that makes you ache for them to look at you again. Not the blue green or blue gray, the blue that's just blue. Cricket has those eyes.

Everything you want to know about a fighter is in his eyes. The look in his eyes tells the truth.

Look not into the sun! Even the moon is too bright for your nocturnal eyes!

She gave up beauty in her tender youth, gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; she covered up her eyes lest they should gaze on vanity, and chose the bitter truth.

Truth . . . and if mine eyes Can bear its blaze, and trace its symmetries, Measure its distance, and its advent wait, I am no prophet - I but calculate.

To see truth as truth, we don't need a lot of study. It's not complicated. What we need is pure observation. An open mind and fresh eyes will serve us well.

A person can perhaps trust his eyes only to the amount of truth his heart does not mind to speak openly to the people to touch their souls in this selfish world full of lies.

The truth was, it was myself I couldn't trust, my eyes from betraying my heart.

But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.

Heaven is not to sweep our truths away, but only to turn them till we see their glory, to open them till we see their truth, and to unveil our eyes till for the first time we shall really see them.

May your eyes be the eyes of truthAnd guided from deception

I Prefer Reading Eyes As Eyes Are Very Powerful. It Can Reveal The Ins And Outs of A Man....

A feather when viewed separately may seem like only a feather, But when seen through the eyes of truth it is a sacred instrument that lifts a bird in flight.

The city was new again, and newly dangerous, and I would walk the streets quickly, eyes averted from those of passersby, like a spy in the employ of lust and happiness, carrying the secret deep within me but always on the tip of my tongue.

I don't look stoned?" My heart began to pound. The classic aim of a pothead is always to look perfectly straight—and if possible operate complicated machinery—while immense shrieking nebulae are coming asunder in his brain. To fail at this—to be found out—carries a mysterious burden of anxiety and shame. "How are my eyes?