A little
seed lay in 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, but proud,
And just a little cold;
The rose I think is rather loud,
And then, its fashion is old.
"The
violet is pretty well,
But not the flower I'd choose;
Nor yet the Canterbury bell,
I never cared for blues."
And so it
criticized each flower,
That supercilious seed;
Until it woke one summer morn,
And found itself a weed.
