I think about my mother every day. But usually the thoughts are fleeting – she crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely… gone.
‘War and Peas’ by Michael Foreman, one of the great British children’s illustrators. His watercolours are so lovely you could almost eat them, just as members of the target audience have been trying to do for decades.
Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
I think that I shall never see a billboard lovely as a tree. Perhaps, unless the billboards fall, I’ll never see a tree at all.
Childhood itself is scarcely more lovely than a cheerful, kindly, sunshiny old age.
Nothing is so beautiful as spring – when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
Shine like the day I set cosmic eyes on you, friend, by the light of the sweet squash in my lovely laser broom.
When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, what charm can soothe her melancholy, what art can wash her guilt away?
Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.