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.

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

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

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

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

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