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 sand stretch far away.
A rover sent from kingdoms old and grand,
He said: "Forsaken sculpture have I known,
Stale, lurid lost void. Vainly there doth stand
Mad, sullen face, cow'd mouldered and fall'n down.
The nasty scowl instates the man's demand.
How talented adz which then tooled the head,
Yet soft! What quiv'ring fears, amazements, stings!
Th'Egyptians fashioned - smart men, born, kilt, dead.
Written on dais, last envoy doth endear:
"Rameses, pharaoh !" hails him, so then sings,
"That work's completed! Halt, meek! Kneel! Beware!"
No ally chaperones the fierce display;
Effigy's lost the ankh, and needs its spare.
The tan dust blows, akin to ocean's spray.