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.