Weird how time flies. I was so busy with limericks last night that I forgot to post.
Lucky for you, though, I got to read another poem at the playground.
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.
Cute, at first sight, because of the little "day - May" thingie in the middle. But it doesn't hold up to much rereading because of the cheap rhymes (i.e., I'm no theorist, it's just what I call it when none of the rhyming words carry much meaning).
And, as a result, he may have ironically counteracted his premise.
("He" being Ben Jonson.)