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Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley


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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 fortunes 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! 



Percy Bysshe Shelley


Percy Bysshe Shelley's other poems:
  1. From the Arabic, an Imitation
  2. Homer's Hymn to Minerva
  3. Bereavement
  4. The Fitful Alternations of the Rain
  5. To Mary


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