OVER the meadows, and down the stream, <br /> <br />And through the garden-walks straying, <br />He plucks the flowers that fairest seem; <br /> <br />His throbbing heart brooks no delaying. <br />His maiden then comes--oh, what ecstasy! <br />Thy flowers thou giv'st for one glance of her eye! <br /> <br />The gard'ner next door o'er the hedge sees the youth: <br />"I'm not such a fool as that, in good truth; <br />My pleasure is ever to cherish each flower, <br />And see that no birds my fruit e'er devour. <br />But when 'tis ripe, your money, good neighbour! <br />'Twas not for nothing I took all this labour!" <br />And such, methinks, are the author-tribe. <br /> <br />The one his pleasures around him strews, <br /> <br />That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose; <br />The other would fain make them all subscribe.<br /><br />Johann Wolfgang von Goethe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/authors/
