Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 77

        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.