The Noble Nature

It is not growing like a tree  

In bulk that makes man better be;  

Or standing long an oak, three hundred years,  

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:  

A lily of a day  

Is fairer far in May,  

Although it falls and dies 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.