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 long 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.