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Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - To The Kind Reader
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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.
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