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.