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