[Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)]
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs
of stone stand in the desert.
Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and
sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The
hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look
on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains.
Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone
and level sands stretch far away.