Beauty

So absolute she seems

My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,

Adam, the goodliest man of men since born

Where perhaps some beauty lies,

And storied windows richly dight,

Sabrina fair,

’Tisn’t beauty, so to speak, nor good talk necessarily. It’s just It. Some women’ll stay in a man’s memory if they once walked down a street.

I think that I shall never see

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.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’—that is all

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,

Do not all charms fly

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,

I met a lady in the meads

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.

In small proportions we just beauty see,

Such sweet neglect more taketh me,

Still to be neat, still to be drest,

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Beauty is no quality in things themselves. It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,