The Eagle
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

 It Is Not Growing Like A Tree 
            by Ben Jonson

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth 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 in May;
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light
In small proportions, we just beauties see,
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