Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

Everything is complicated; if that were not so, life and poetry and everything else would be a bore.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

Beauty is momentary in the mind / The fitful tracing of a portal; / But in the flesh it is immortal. / The body dies; the body's beauty lives.