The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/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 erred in, what corrected,
What I suffered, what effected,
To this wreath as flowers belong;
For the aged and the youthful.
And the vicious and the truthful,
All are fair when viewed in song.