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.
(collected poem )
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