“Oh, to what uses shall we put
The wildweed-flower that simply blows?
And is there any moral shut
Within the bosom of the rose?”

“Oh, softest is the cheek's love-ray
When seen by moonlight hours
Other roses seek the day,
But blushes are night flowers.”

“Max Rose: Vo? What kind of name is that?
Spader: What kind of name is Rose? Isn't that some kind of flower?”

“There is a god within us.
It is when he stirs us that our bosom warms; it is
his impulse that sows the seeds of inspiration.”
Est deus in nobis; agitante calescimus illo: impetus hic sacrae semina mentis habet.

“What we call "morals" is simply blind obedience to words of command.”

“Ordinary people simply don't know what books mean to us, shut up here. Reading, learning, and the radio are our amusements.”

“As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.”

“Oh, no man knows
Through what wild centuries
Roves back the rose.”

“Cornelia. What flowers are these?
Gazetta. The pansy this.
Cor. Oh, that's for lover's thoughts.”

“… it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing…”