Fleeting Beauty Quotes

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay crisp and crackling beneath his feet. Picking one up he marveled, not for the first time, at the perfection of nature where leaves were most beautiful at the very end of their lives.

What a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it!

A street in Constantinople is a picture which one ought to see once-not oftener.

I paint flowers to prevent them from dying

This life of ours...human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up---no more flower.

Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them.

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely—flowers.

Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.

Beautiful is the bloom of youth, but it lasts only for a short time.

Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

O fairest flower! no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.

Passing beauties are only the fugitive reflections of the eternal. All beauty alters and all life melts away; in short, everything passes with marvelous rapidity; beautiful Helen of Troy has become a toothless skull, then a handful of dust, then nothing.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

These flowers will be rotten in a couple hours. Birds will crap on them. The smoke here will make them stink, and tomorrow a bulldozer will probably run over them, but for right now they are so beautiful.

Girls, like flowers, bloom but once. But once is enough.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.

How passionately we love everything that cannot last: the dazzling crystallory of winter, the spring in bloom, the fragile flight of butterflies, crimson sunsets, a kiss, and life.

All beauty is sad. [...] For it fades.

Would you complain because a beautiful sunset doesn't have a future or a shooting star a payoff? And why should romance 'lead anywhere'? Passion isn't a path through the woods. Passion is the woods.

We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.

Beauty's of a fading nature. Has a season and is gone!

Every spirit passing through the world fingers the tangible and mars the mutable and finally has come to look and not to buy. So shoes are worn and hassocks are sat upon and finally everything is left where it was and the spirit passes on, just as the wind in the orchard picks up the leaves from the ground as if there were no other pleasure in the world but brown leaves, as if it would deck, clothe, flesh itself in flourishes of dusty brown apple leaves and then drops them all in a heap at the side of the house and goes on.