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 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 Spectral Horseman
2. The Solitary
3. Bereavement
4. Liberty
5. From the Arabic, an Imitation

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