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 and proud,
But just a trifle cold;
The rose, I think, is rather loud,
And then, its fashion’s old.
“The violet is very well,
But not a flower I’d choose;
Nor yet the canterbury bell,–
I never cared for blues.
“Petunias are by far too bright,
And vulgar flowers beside;
The primrose only blooms at night,
And peonies spread too wide.”
“And so it criticized each flower,
This supercilious seed;
Until it woke one summer hour,
And found itself a weed.
By Mildred Howells, in St. Nicholas
(Taken from Friends Intelligencer and Journal)


