swan

...this refinement and delicacy were what Cale adored; but Cale had been beaten into shape, hammered in dreadful fires of fear and pain. How could she be with him for long? A secret part of Arbell had been searching for some time for a way to leave her lover__lthough she was unaware of this, it is only fair to record. And so as Cale waited for her to save him while he worked out a way of saving her, she had already chosen the bitter but reasonable path of the good, of the many over the one...

His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck's nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it is hatched from a swan's egg.

She dug into one of the boxes, finding clay angels she__ made in art class when she was seven years old. She found plastic swans on strings and red crystal cardinals. She found a blue-and-white rocking horse covered in glitter. She found a porcelain Santa Claus. She found that she couldn__ figure out where the hell time had gone.

There's no need to curse God if you're an ugly duckling. He chooses those strong enough to endure it so that they can guide others who've felt the same.

I have a message for your daughter,_ said Cale. __ am bound to her with cables that not even God can break. One day, if there is a soft breeze on her cheek, it may be my breath; one night, if the cool wind plays with her hair, it may be my shadow passing by._ And with this terrible threat he faced forward and the procession started once more. In less than a minute they were gone. In her shady room Arbell Swan-Neck stood white and cold as alabaster.

Tell me where the swans go in the winterI need to know if the mute ones can sing.Tell me why stars fall from the skyI need to know if it is luck they bring.Tell me why feathers land near youI need to know if you've injured your wing.Now, tell me where you end, my angelFor I no longer know where I begin.

Every lake belongs to the quietness desired by the swans.

True beauty is measured by the number of pearls within you, not those around your neck.

All art is the result of one__ having been in danger of having gone through an experience all the way to the end when no one can go any further. This is what it is like to be an artist _ you are unsteady on the edge of life like a swan before an anxious launching of himself on the floods where he is gently caught.

Look upon men and things with the inner eye, with its form and desire, never forgetting that the shadow they throw as they pass by, upon hillock or wall, is but the fleeting image of a mightier shadow, which, like the wing of an imperishable swan, floats over every soul that draws near to their soul. Do not believe that thoughts such as these can be mere ornaments, and without influence upon the lives of those who admit them. It is far more important that one__ life should be perceived than that it should be transformed; for no sooner has it been perceived, than it transforms itself of its own accord.

If you can add a great beauty to something which is already beautiful, then you must be very beautiful like a white swan adding beauty to a misty lake!

Every morningbefore the birds starttrilling me their stories,I give birth to a new lovethrough my same old heartwhen a lake__ placidityfinds life in the swans breathOnly for you...From the poem 'Only For You

I'm telling you, the gorgeous of the world can actually look pretty intimidating when they scowl. Imagine a snow-white swan with a scary tattoo holding a chain saw. There's just no way to really prepare for that.

I've developed into quite a swan. I'm one of those people that will probably look better and better as I get older - until I drop dead of beauty.

If it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck, it could be a really ugly swan.