It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make Man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year.
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measurers life may perfect be-.