Percy Bysshe Shelley (Field Place, Horsham, 4 de agosto de 1792 - Mar Lígure, Golfo de Spezia, 8 de julho de 1822) foi um dos mais importantes poetas românticos ingleses.
Shelley é famoso por obras tais como Ozymandias, Ode to the West Wind, To a Skylark, e The Masque of Anarchy,
que estão entre os poemas ingleses mais populares e aclamados pela
crítica. O seu maior trabalho, no entanto, foram os longos poemas, entre
eles Prometheus Unbound, Alastor, or The Spirit of Solitude, Adonaïs, The Revolt of Islam, e o inacabado The Triumph of Life. The Cenci (1819) e Prometheus Unbound (1820) são peças dramáticas em 5 e 4 atos respetivamente. Ele também escreveu os romances góticos Zastrozzi (1810) e St. Irvyne (1811) e os contos The Assassins (1814) e The Coliseum (1817).
Shelley ficou famoso pela sua associação com John Keats e Lord Byron. A romancista Mary Shelley foi a sua segunda esposa. É um dos mais significativos poetas românticos da Inglaterra.
in Wikipédia
Hymn of Pan
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and the waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the daedal Earth,
And of Heaven, and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth—
And then I chang'd my pipings,
Singing how down the vale of Maenalus
I pursu'd a maiden and clasp'd a reed.
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed.
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
