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.

Merry Christmas everyone :)

Guest poem sent in by Mallika

This puts into perspective some of the
misplaced energy of our times; prolonging
life - on what terms? To pull the plug
eventually?

The Hippocratic oath was to reduce
suffering, not to play god.

BJ was a contemporary of Shakespeare
and Inigo Jones; he was Poet Laureate
both unofficially and by appointment.

More on BJ at:
http://www.excite.com/entertainment/books_and_literature/authors/last_name_a_z/j/authors_jo/jonson_ben/

— Mallika