I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast & trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert, near them on the sand
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip & 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 & 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!”
No thing beside remains round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless & bare
The lone & level sands stretch far away.