The Critic
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 lilly'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 violt is all very well,
But not a flower I'd choose;
Nor yet the Canterburry 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.
-Author Unknown
"He that despiseth his neighbour sinneth: but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he." Proverbs 14:21
Friday, February 7, 2014
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