The Poetry Corner

To The Kind Reader.

By Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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.