The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mode but the true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives the passion that she shows. The beauty of a woman grows with the passing years.

Since love grows within you so beauty grows. For love is the beauty of the soul.

I think that one's art is a growth inside one. I do not think one can explain growth. It is silent and subtle. One does not keep digging up a plant to see how it grows.

I say that democracy can never prove itself beyond cavil until it founds and luxuriantly grows its own forms of art poems schools theology displacing all that exists or that has been produced anywhere in the past under opposite influences.

Love grows more tremendously full swift poignant as the years multiply.

And then when all around grows dark when we feel utterly alone when all men right and left pass us by and know us not a forgotten feeling rises in the breast.

Brain power improves by brain use just as our bodily strength grows with exercise. And there is no doubt that a large proportion of the female population from school days to late middle age now have very complicated lives indeed.

A newspaper is lumber made malleable. It is ink made into words and pictures. It is conceived born grows up and dies of old age in a day.

The reason for the slow progress of the world seems to lie in a single fact. Every man is born under the yoke and grows up beneath the oppressions of his age.

Temper never mellows with age and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.

A tart temper never mellows with age and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.

The heart never grows better by age I fear rather worse always harder. A young liar will be an old one and a young knave will only be a greater knave as he grows older.

The whole business of marshaling one's energies becomes more and more important as one grows older.

I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.

Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.