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

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

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

It isn't bread that feeds you; it is life and the spirit that feed you through bread.

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

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

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