by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832)
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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