The rose does not have a why; it blossums without reason, forgetful of self and oblivious to our vision.

Paradise is at your own center; unless you find it there, there is no way to enter.

Springtime is at hand. When will you ever bloom, if not here and now?

Nothing can throw thee into the infernal abyss so much as this detested word - heed well! - this mine and thine.

If Christ were born in Bethlehem a thousand times and not in thee thyself; then art thou lost eternally.

A rose is but a rose, it blooms because it blooms; it thinks not of itself, nor asks if it is seen.

What is outside yourself does not convey much worth; Clothes do not make the man, the saddle not the horse.