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

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

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

I am like God and God like me. I am as large as God. He is as small as I. He cannot above me nor I beneath him be.

The rose is without 'why'; it blooms simply because it blooms. It pays no attention to itself, nor does it ask whether anyone sees it.

The Rose is without 'why'—she blooms because she blooms.

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