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.