“The flowers anew, returning seasons bring but beauty faded has no second spring.”
If in my youth I had realized that the sustaining splendour of beauty of with which I was in love would one day flood back into my heart, there to ignite a flame that would torture me without end, how gladly would I have put out the light in my eyes.
No single man can be taken as a model for a perfect figure, for no man lives on earth who is endowed with the whole of beauty.
Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
As we grow old, the beauty steals inward.