:: 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.”