I met a traveler from an antique land, who said; Two vast and trunkless legs stand in the middle of a desert; Near them, on the sand, half sunk, a shattered visage lies; Who’s frowned and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command; Tell that it’s sculpted well, those passages read, which yet survived stamped on these lifeless things, the hand that mocked them and the hand that fed. And I’m the pedestal, these words appear:
MY NAME IS OZYMANDIAS.
KING OF KINGS
LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY IN DESPAIR.
Nothing beside remains.
