Читать книгу Fourth Reader - Various - Страница 19

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 sear.

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.