Percy Bysshe Shelley (Перси Биши Шелли)

* * *

I would not be a king--enough
Of woe it is to love;
The path to power is steep and rough,
And tempests reign above.
I would not climb the imperial throne;
’Tis built on ice which fortune’s sun
Thaws in the height of noon.
Then farewell, king, yet were I one,
Care would not come so soon.
Would he and I were far away
Keeping flocks on Himalay! 

1. From the Arabic, an Imitation
2. Homer's Hymn to Minerva
3. The Fitful Alternations of the Rain
4. К Колриджу • To Coleridge
5. К Эдуарду Уильэмсу • To Edward Williams

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