I once met a traveler 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.