The Noble Nature

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.