All beauty is a gleam
from the fountain of beauty.
No work of beauty can be more
beautiful than the mind
which designed it. I do not
think a sculptor can possibly
chisel a marble so as to make it
more beautiful than his own
ideal conception. I do not think
a painter can produce a painting
more beautiful than the thought
of his mind which led up to it;
I do not think a musician can
express in sound, or a poet on
paper, anything beyond the thought
within him. I know, indeed, that
the conception of either may grow
with the process by which it is
presented to others, and that the
man may, as he proceeds, have a fairer
and nobler view of what he is trying
to express; but, after all, the mind
of the sculptor is more beautiful than
the marble which he has sculptured;
and the mind of a painter is a more
beautiful thing than the work of art
which he has painted; and the mind the
musician is better and highter and
nobler than the most exquisite
symphony which he has composed and
reduced to writing; and the mind of
the poet is better than his most
beautiful piece of poetry. And so
we must rise from all the fragments
of beauty which God has scattered so
widely over His world to say with
Milton ~
"Thus wonderous fair; Thyself how
wonderous then!"
E.H. Bickersteth
A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases;
it can never
Pass into nothingness
is the first line of the poem
Endymion by Keats
Beauty is only skin deep.
Beauty is an all-pervading presence.
It unfolds to the numberless flowers
of the Spring it waves in the
branches of the trees and in the green
blades of grass; it haunts the depths of
the earth and the sea, and gleams out in
the hues of the shell and the precious
stone. And not only these minute objects,
but the ocean, the mountains, the couds,
the heavens, the stars, the rising and
the setting sun, all overflow with
beauty. The universe is its temple;
and those men who are alive to
it themselves encompassed with it on every
side. Now, this beauty is so precious, the
enjoyment it gives so refined and pure,
so congenial and so akin to worship
that it is pain living in the midst of it,
and living almost as blind to it, as if,
instead of this fair earth and glorious sky,
they were tenants of a dungeon. An infinite
joy is lost to the world by the want of
culture of this spiritual endowment. The
greatest truths are wronged if not linked with
beauty, and they win their way most surely
and deeply into the soul when arrayed in this
their natural and fit attire.
W.E. Channing
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
William Shakespeare
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