The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.

How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?—from the covenant of peace a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born.

In truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold that glory.

In beauty of face no maiden ever equaled her. It was the radiance of an opium-dream - an airy and spirit-lifting vision more wildly divine than the fantasies which hovered about the slumbering souls of the daughters of Delos.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.

There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.

When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect - they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul - not of intellect, or of heart.

That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.