| 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.’ |
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