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

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

The Rose which here on earth is now perceived by me, has blossomed thus in god from all eternity.

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

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

The name of Jesus is as ointment poured forth; It nourishes, and illumines, and stills the anguish of the soul.

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