‘Sir, you are the Fatherland’s greatest poet but I am convinced that you will not be able to construct a rhyming poem out of the following two words: Doorbell and Maidenbosom.’
Goethe retreated to a desk for a few minutes and then returned with a new poem.
The doorbell mounted to the wall
the bosom, neither big nor small
the hand soon feels at a light touch
from deep inside, both things as such,
an inner stirring of the bell
and on the bosom, just as well.
One knows outside there stands in wait
an eager fellow, at the gate.