It is not growing like a treeing 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 days fairer far in May Although it falls 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 (Ben Jonson)

Postcards from No Man's Land