A poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

When by the brook his strain

Cupid is fluting,
And on the neighboring plain

Mayors disputing,
There turns the ear ere long,

Loving and tender,
Yet to the noise a song

Soon must surrender.
Loud then the flute-notes glad

Sound 'mid war's thunder;
If I grow raving mad,

Is it a wonder?
Flutes sing and trumpets bray,

Waxing yet stronger;
If, then, my senses stray,

Wonder no longer.

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