FROM the forests and highlands <br /> We come, we come; <br /> From the river-girt islands, <br /> Where loud waves are dumb <br /> Listening to my sweet pipings. <br /> The wind in the reeds and the rushes, <br /> The bees on the bells of thyme, <br /> The birds on the myrtle-bushes, <br /> The cicale above in the lime, <br /> And the lizards below in the grass, <br />Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, <br /> Listening to my sweet pipings. <br /> <br /> Liquid Peneus was flowing, <br /> And all dark Temple lay <br /> In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing <br /> The light of the dying day, <br /> Speeded by my sweet pipings. <br /> The Sileni and Sylvans and fauns, <br /> And the Nymphs of the woods and wave <br /> To the edge of the moist river-lawns, <br /> And the brink of the dewy caves, <br />And all that did then attend and follow, <br />Were silent with love,--as you now, Apollo, <br /> With envy of my sweet pipings. <br /> <br /> I sang of the dancing stars, <br /> I sang of the dedal earth, <br /> And of heaven, and the Giant wars, <br /> And love, and death, and birth. <br /> And then I changed my pipings,-- <br />Singing how down the vale of Maenalus <br /> I pursued a maiden, and clasped a reed: <br />Gods and men, we are all deluded thus; <br /> It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. <br />All wept--as I think both ye now would, <br />If envy or age had not frozen your blood-- <br /> At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hymn-of-pan/
