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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.
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