It is not growing like a tree

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 droop and die that night,

It was the plant and flow'r of light.

In small proportions we just beauties see;

And in short measures, life may perfect be.