I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after

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

After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.

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.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires