A little rule, a little sway,A sunbeam in a winter’s day,Is all the proud and mighty haveBetween the cradle and the grave.
Is there beyond the silent nightAn endless day?Is death a door that leads to light?We cannot say.
It is not growing like a treeIn 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 dayIs fairer far in May,Although it falls and die that night—It was the plant and flower of Light.Ben Jonson
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