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, 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.
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