The Critic
The Critic anonymous A little seed lay on the ground And soon began to sprout. "Now, which of all the flowers around," It mused, "shall I come out? The lily's face is fair and proud, But just a trifle cold. The rose, I think, is rather loud, And then, its fashions old. The violet is all very well, But not a flower I'd choose; Nor yet the Canterbury bell — I never cared for blues." And so it criticized each flower, This supercilious seed, Until it woke one summer morn, And found itself — a weed.