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 measures life may perfect be.