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. The Fitful Alternations of the Rain
2. To Mary
3. Wine Of The Fairies
4. From the Arabic, an Imitation
5. Letter To Maria Gisborne

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