No one talks more than a Poet;
Fain he'd have the people know it.

Praise or blame he ever loves;
None in prose confess an error,
Yet we do so, void of terror,

In the Muses' silent groves.

What I err'd in, what corrected,
What I suffer'd, what effected,

To this wreath as flow'rs belong;
For the aged, and the youthful,
And the vicious, and the truthful,

All are fair when viewed in song.

1800.*
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Added: Jan 10 2005 | Viewed: 749 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Poem: 2. TO THE KIND READER.
Volume: The Poems - 01. Songs
Year: Published/Written in 1853
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