What though you’ve learned of envy’s wiles,
The slanderous tongue, which oft beguiles?
The sweetest fruit on bush and trees,
Is culled and plucked by birds and bees.
Although you’ve traced the landscape fair,
And sought for knowledge rich and rare,
Gone to the depth of hidden ore,
That richest mine you might explore,
Lines “To my Mother,” more I prize
Than all the paintings ’neath the skies;